We Are The Chorus
by Filthy Weeabu Trash
Summary: "The galaxy will bleed, and its blood will be the color of Ruby's own." -Eldar Legend. Circa Unknown.
1. The Song Begins

We are the Chorus.

_To Live Is To Fear, I Am Alive, I Am Afraid, I Am Afraid, I am Afraid_

_"The galaxy will bleed, and its blood will be the color of Ruby's own."_  
-Eldar Legend. Circa Unknown.

**/Aight' so, I'm guessing that most of you might be pretty fuckin' confused as to what this is, you may be askin' yourself: "This bitch-ass-nigga's got Another fucking story going?" Yeah- Yeah, I know, but shut your trap 'for I hunt you down and kiss you on the lips and call you the gay, I gots' an explanation. You see, managing all those other fuckers is getting tiresome, and a lotta y'all are confused by the fuckin' 'Ours Is' timeline, so, instead, I'ma gonna mash them bitches all together into one solid fuckin' mess. Also, I'ma gonna be fixin' a bunch of inconstancies and focussing more on the RWBY characters instead of my shitty OC's. 'Aight'? You get it now? I'ma gonna keep the other stories up, shit's gon' be fine. It's all just gonna be taking place in here now. We're all gon' make it, brah./**

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_'There is nothing more aptly human than trauma. Suffering is the sweetest release of innocence. To purge away all hope, and replace it with hate and apathy, that is Human, more-so than that, it is humanity at its finest- without doubt, without concern, without remorse, and without hesitation.'_

Is it tragic, or is it inevitable, that war becomes the answer in all things concerning life? Perhaps, the tragedy lies in the inevitability therein, that in the Forty-third millennium of mankind's existence, there exists only war. The Imperium of Mankind is a beast that exists only for the sake of itself, a perpetual machine who's sole purpose has become one of penultimate annihilation.

In all aspects, does the Imperium dominate the realm of warfare. Total warfare, complete and utter war on every level from the lowliest peasant to the highest lord of the adeptus. All things serve the imperium and that imperium serves War. War eternal, war without end.

The vast planet-sized factories, the countless trillions of men and women who these factories arm, the endless systems that these men and women defend, the systems themselves bent to the production and training of these men and women so as to protect or conquer yet further systems to then be turned towards that same goal and so on and so on-

War, only war for endless war a war eternal forever more unto war.

There can only be war for mankind, because the price is too great otherwise. The Tau would see mankind as little more than drooling servants to their ethereal's. The Eldar would see mankind eradicated so as to fix their folly eons ago, their Dark Kin would see mankind as slaves and toys. The Necrons would annihilate mankind and all other living things. The Orks would slaughter mankind, the Tyranids would devour the galaxy, and then there are the countless Xenos species beyond that would see the Imperium crumble, and its peoples enslaved.

And for the Chaos Gods and their dark servants? Their plans for humanity are yet darker still.

So Mankind wages war. A war of survival at all costs, a war without concept of an end for the enemies of man are without number, and mankind, even in its innumerable trillions, is yet too few.

With the shattering of the imperium at the thirteenth and final black crusade of the Abbaddon the despoiler, the Imperium stands at the brink of collapse. The death of Abbaddon was a price too high in the end. To bring the full might of the imperium for one single battle, led to a cataclysm unseen since the darkness of the Horus Heresy.

Countless systems were lost, the Ultima Segmentum collapsed in its entirety, and the Segmentum Pacificus stands at the brink. Tyranid incursions threaten worlds once thought safe, and the Necrons awaken in ever greater numbers. Dark Eldar raids have become common place, and Ork Waaaghs seek to threaten the system of Sol itself.

Mankind bleeds.

_And the color of that blood will be as red as Ruby's own._

…

Ruby Rose woke from her nightmare with a silent gasp.

She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she simply opened her eyes and held her breath, her heart hammered in her breast, and her mouth was dry. She didn't scream, that was what was important, and she took a small measure of pride in that fact. Huntress's didn't scream, and she was a Huntress now, not a little girl.

She wondered, then, if Hunters were supposed to have bad dreams?

It was night, the shattered moon high in the sky, and deep shadows were cast about the humble campsite by a meagre fire. Ruby could see Rin and Nora in their bags, still soundly in the depths of their dreams, and then there was Jaune, by the fire, cross-legged on a log, he stared out into the black, adding a bundle of sticks to the flames whenever they dipped low.

Ruby sat up, fighting against the urge to snuggle back down into her sleeping bag and its toasty warmth. She looked to the side, at Crescent Rose, and pulled it closer. Her heart was beating too fast, she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep like this.

Jaune glanced up, his hand twitches towards Coreca Mors and then he relaxes when he sees that it's only her. He was high strung, on edge ever since Beacon.

"Hey," He whispers. "Cant sleep?"  
Ruby nods, rubbing her eyes she squirms out of her bag and tip-toes barefoot over to Jaune, she takes a seat on her bag next to him by the fire.

"Same dream?" He asks. She nods again. "Damn." He sighs. "That makes it the third time, right?"

Another nod.

It made no sense.

_Vale burns, and Ruby watches from atop a hill. _  
_Below her, a horde of men with bloodied faces rip each other apart._  
_On the horizon to the west, she watches an army of doomed soldiers march into the desert only to be buried beneath the sands. _  
_She looks to the north and there stands the soot-stained skeleton of a young Faunus girl holding a burning axe, she's waiting for an answer- one that Ruby refuses to give her. _  
_A hand on her shoulder turns her around, and she faces now to the south, and she sees a man holding a staff made of starlight. _  
_He stares down at her impatiently, he needs her to say yes. _  
_She turns again, the west, and she see's Raven and Qrow, desperately trying to escape from a horned giant covered in chains that pull him back towards an abyss, the giant begs them to stop. _  
_Ruby looks to the heavens, and for a moment terror fills her mind, as she feels the impossible gaze of countless unknowable intellects turn to stare back at her._

She buries her head in her arms.

"I don't get it." Ruby sinks. "I don't suppose you can make any sense of it?"

Jaune laughs softly. "I don't have a dang clue, Ruby."

"You think it means something?"

"What, like a vision?"

"Maybe, I don't know… Maybe I'm just being stupid." She sighs, brushing a lock of hair out of her face, and staring into the fire.

"We're all shaken up." Jaune sighs. "Beacon…" He stops himself, he mulls his words and then continues. "After Beacon, being a Hunter… It has a different meaning now. It's more than just about fighting the grimm."

"Salem." Ruby says, Jaune dips his head.

A moment of quiet respite passes between them. The crackle of the fire, and the low rustle of the wind through the trees. The fire, Ruby stares into the embers, the conflagration is peaceful, warming.

A face in the flame-  
-then it was gone.

The afterimage of a skull. Grinning. Charred black. Empty eyes the selfsame pit that all daemons lurked inside.

She didn't scream. She was a Huntress. So she didn't scream.

This time.

She ducks her head back into her arms.

Ruby wishes things were simple again. She wishes she never heard of Salem, the white fang, Maidens, and Artifacts. She wishes she never met Ozpin.

She wishes that she could just be a Hunter, and with her sister Yang, they could go defeat the Grimm and save the world from Monsters, and not have to fight People.

But, she was young, and so only now, was she beginning to learn, that more often than not, it is people, who have the capacity to be the true monsters.

Dawn was not far off, when the storm suddenly hit, and fire rained from the heavens.


	2. A Shattered World

M43.644.286

Not a bang, not a whimper, but instead, a slow, bleeding groan that stretches into the ever-malignant uncertainty of the future.

Such is how an empire dies. Slowly- marred in violence and internal strife, subsisting only through the sacrifice of the unnamed and unknown millions who fight and die at the command of uncaring distant lords. The Imperium in the forty-third millennium could be likened to a corpse that did not know that it was yet dead; the limbs spasm and twitch, fulfilling orders that are no longer relevant. For in the forty-third, madness has taken root across the galaxy. It would be wrong to call it the End-Times, but it would be a lie to say that they were not far off.

From the mouths of madmen, blind prophets, and accursed heretic demagogues, were dark utterances screamed to the huddled masses. Hysteria was visited on cardinal worlds of the imperium in the form of unsanctioned Psykers shrieking of a damned future. Screaming fell names, apostate preachers roused their cults, and filled the streets of hive-cities with their dark hymns in the claim that now was The Time of Dusk.

Even as these false-prophets burned at the stake, they would still say that the manifest destiny of mankind has become bitter and ashen, that The Shattering had seen to the death of all, that the dark-gods would at last have their final victory. Words such as Lies, Heresy, and Madness, were prescribed to these epithets that were so bitingly shouted by those who burned. The citizenry was reassured, their souls and minds assuaged by familiar passages and keen propaganda, the simpler folk clung to the falsehoods with all the might they could muster, for otherwise, the possibilities were too horrific to imagine.

It is only in truth, that despite its blasphemous portents, the cold kernel of doubt remained in the heart of the faithful.

Countless times before has Mankind been at the brink of annihilation; The Dark Age of Technology, the Age of Strife, The Horus Heresy, The War of the Beast, The Age of Apostasy, The Wars of Armageddon, The Tyranid Incursions, The Baddab Wars, The Black Crusades, these have all tested mankind and each time mankind stood triumphant over their foes. Bloodied, and unbalanced, but ever yet resilient.

The Shattering was different.

Never before has The Emperors light been so dark and distant- the shining beacon at the head of The Throne World nothing more than a faint ember. Once thought limitless, the ranks of the Imperial Guard dwindle. The strength of the Astartes; once thought indomitable, now more akin to a blunted sword coated in rust.

The Sisterhood of the Sororitas, a bastion of peerless faith, finds a dark needle of blasphemous uncertainty lacing its thread through their tapestries of devotion. The venerable hulls of the Imperial Navy are as scarred and broken as the battlefleets they are a part of, and the revered god-machines of the Adeptus Titanicus find their maniples understrength and undersupplied.

The once unstoppable might that was the Imperium of Man has been blunted. It was shattered. It all came to its end upon the day Abbadon launched his thirteenth and final crusade.

And although it can be readily said that the Imperium did not break without its allotment of blood, the cost for slaying Abbadon the Despoiler once and for all was a price that has now crippled what little strength the Imperium had left. The borders are closing in, the shadows teem with Xenos raiders, dark cults stir, and renegade warbands coalesce.

Mankind has not the strength to withstand another storm.

The galaxy does not care.

The waters begin to rise.

`Tis the last Chorus 'fore the final verse.

…

This world once Was.

It was once a world of blue and green. It was once a noble planet. People bent towards humility. Rulers humble and kind.

Prosperous lands, tilled by peasantry, living quietly under the guidance of a single grand monarchy, its holds spanned across the singular equatorial landmass of the largely aquatic planet.

It was once all this, now never again.

In golden light- the days of the Great Crusade, was this world then brought into the imperial fold. Salvation from the terror of old night, from behind the curtain of a warp-storm. Its saviors came from the void with their heraldry that of a wolf. They were the Luna Wolves, and at their head was the favored son of The Emperor, Horus Lupercal.

It was this cursed history that would lead to the systems ruin. In the darkness of the forty-third millennium, a schism grew within the monarchy as these old tales were rediscovered, the days of founding. Recidivists saw to the usurpation of the king and queen, and the installment of their own puppet lords that cried the name of Horus towards the sky in adulation, braying for their master to show them the truth of his path and deliver them from the cage that was the Imperium that he rebelled from so long ago.

Corruption, born from the howling of madmen burrowed to the surface and made known their unholy growths.

They summoned up dark magicks that hid away the sun, and they carpeted fields with rotting black flags, each one daubed with a singular blood red eye that leered up at the cosmos in calling. Dark runes were carved into innocent flesh, the still beating hearts of these victims torn out and sacrificed upon crimson alters bespoken of grand and eternal war. The gods of the warp -both fickle and malicious- granted a portion of favor to this damned world.

Heretic prognosticators screamed of dark glory to be gained, of a return of Chaos triumphant in the conquering of this defenseless systems bereft of warriors and starships. This dark promise of a twisted and corpulent hope drew forth both Warbands and Renegades, lost without the protection afforded to them by The Eye of Terror. So it was made so, that upon the eighth day of genuflection unto the dark name of Horus and his legacy of treachery, that the sky above the once humble planet named Valtavyn, was turned black by the hundreds of thousands of war-scarred landing ships dyed red by a gore-hued sun.

Valtavyn fell; it fell long before even the first heretic survivor of The Shattering set foot upon its fields. The land was already sewn with chaos by the feudal heathen warlords that now vied for control of its singular grand central cathedral. The system of Mulvan fell, and from the Mulvan system, a ramshackle warband of less than a thousand destitute fleets, traitors, and renegades turned their attentions to the sub-sector and conquered its several hundred worlds.

With this boon of slaves, this cursed stretch of subsystems now decreed itself the Apostates Lash. This cull of hedonists and murderers turned its claws to the sector, and skewered through the meager defense flotillas that had been drawn from to defend the Cadian Gate and were then lost in the mutual destruction wrought of the disastrous 13th.

The Apostates Lash was a collection of the desperate and the weak; for the conquering of this swath of once Imperial territory was not enacted out of strength, it was born out of necessity. The Eye of Terror, once a haven for the madmen of the arch-enemy, was in turmoil.

Discord within the Eye of Terror was nothing new, it was a realm of Chaos and so it was naturally chaotic and inclined to the whim of the dark gods. After The Shattering, this changed. The balance of power shifted unequivocally, the Great Game of the Chaos Gods had been turned on its head, and within the warp did great armies of daemons clash against each other in a manner never seen before. There had been a deception, a trick, a gambit that not even Tzeentch had foreseen had been enacted by the Dread Anathema.

Of what he had done, of what He had stolen from under their noses that had incited the chaos gods in such a manner none can say, but its effects were manifest in the absence of daemonic incursions- if only for a moment. And for the Eye, the dark pocket of corrupted realspace writhed, the internal warp rift spasmed and broke, a great ruinous storm shattered the worlds that lay within its hazy caress.

The Imperium and its learned few knew nothing of this, for all they knew, nothing had changed and the forces of the arch-enemy were as strong as ever. And it was so, that even when battered and weary, The Imperium gathered what was left of its strength.

The Great Crusade had seen to the gatherings of the greatest number of imperial forces ever imagined. The Emperor and his sons oversaw the mustering of billions of ships and their countless trillions of soldiers, serfs, and servants.

In the dark days after the Heresy but before the shattering, crusading fleets under the guidance of Warmasters saw to the reconquering of imperial territory lost to the countless enemies of mankind. Still, these conquests were but pale shadows of the numbers seen during the Great Crusade. Though a shadow in comparison, they were still mighty, they were unstoppable gatherings of imperial strength, the resources of an entire galaxy-wide empire condensed and distributed for one, singular purpose in the destruction of an enemy, the Imperial war machine was both unrelenting and uncaring.

In the darkness after The Shattering, what now served as an Imperial Crusade was nothing more than a ragged band of those with power enough to fight. The back of the Imperium was broken, even a few dozen battlefleets was almost too much to ask for, and several hundred dozen regiments almost unmanageable, to say nothing about Astartes, Titans, Knights, and Sororitas. The territorial losses the Imperium suffered during these dark decades were said to rival those seen during only the Horus Heresy.

A crusade against the Apostates Lash was not wanted, nor was it needed. The renegades of the Lash were crippled and tired. They were exhausted and depleted. Their ships were barley held together wrecks without the means to be repaired, supplies were so depleted that those few remaining traitor astartes among them had resorted to using repurposed mortal weapons.

The several desolate forge worlds they had captured were nothing more than skeletons, and the armory worlds among them were barren. The realm of the apostates lash had neither the means nor the resources to be of any immediate threat to the imperium. If given at least a handful of centuries to gather slaves and allow the dark adepts of the traitor priests of mars to man the forge worlds and gather resources, then maybe the Lash would pose a threat, and if the masters of the lash were of such right-mindedness, than maybe they would agree to stay their hand for the moment.

Imperium and Lash both smelled the blood in the void, the blood of each other. They wanted the fight to end. Both wanted the Long War to finally be over.

The remnants of Chaos prepared its defenses, the broken armies of the Imperium made ready for one last war.

…

It begins with a man.

A human, a mortal, a spec so insignificant when put against the backdrop of the galaxy that he measured no more as an ant, digging within the crust of a planet, floating through the void. He is naught but dust in the dirt, a raindrop in the ocean, a single blade of grass amidst a field.

All the same, he is a soldier, an Imperial Guardsman. He knows his insignificance in the grand game of the galaxy more than almost any other. His duty is to die. His purpose is to die in such a manner that his corpse may be used by his betters to build the rampart that scales the fortress walls that think to hide humanities final victory.

His armor is in tatters and his equipment is dented, burnt, and chipped. His body is battered and his ears are bleeding. He is filthy with mud and smeared with soot and shit. His scarred, torn up and worn face is scowling with a look of grim petulance, and despite a split lip and freely bleeding gash across his cheek, he does not seem aware of the pain. He is fighting for his life in a blood-drenched pit.

The guardsman thrashes, fighting tooth and nail, clawing at his enemy, grappling for control of his opponent's weapon. Entangled with him is an equally dirty man, but his filth seeps from the soul. Covered in ritual brands and scarred with devotionals towards dark powers, a Heretic with exposed muscles and animal furs stitched to his own skin snarls at the guardsman with peeled back lips.

The Guardsman currently has the advantage, but only barley.

He struggles to pin the cultists face- down beneath him, trying to force the lunatics head below the murky loam at the bottom of the crater they find themselves embattled within. It is an ugly brawl, brutish and uncivilized, both of them snarling in contempt for the other. For the simple fact of its pure animosity, it is perfectly human.

The Guardsman fights, throwing punches, his torn up knuckles driving into the heretic's skull before as forces the cultists down, trying to keep the sigil-scarred mans head just under the brackish water long enough for him to lose strength and drown. He struggles to keep the cultist pinned; the wild thrashing nearly throws him off, and his gurgled screams ring in his ears.

The guardsman grits his teeth, trying to force the man back under, and failing as the heathen surges upwards with a burst of desperate strength, and it is only a second later that the heretic is falling upon the guardsman with an ecstatic, gleeful shriek.

Chipped and dirty fingernails claw at the guardsman's face, digging into flesh as the enemy wraps his hands around the guardsman's neck, crazed like some pestilent beast. Choking for air, the soldier kicks upwards, trying to dislodge the fiend even as another salvo of artillery hammers down from the sky itself. The cataclysmic crashing shakes the world, beating his eardrums into deafness. The guardsman feels himself weakening, his pulse screams in his head. The heretic squeezes tighter, grunted slurs and oaths spill from his blood filled mouth, spitting out of his stitched-open lips.

The Imperial soldier reaches around him, plying the murky loam with desperate fingers until at last fortune favors him and his hand scrapes over a familiar shape. With an unheard prayer he brings up a mud-slick revolver from the loam and plants the barrel squarely under the heretics chin.

The cylinder turns, a beam of heat lances through the skull of the cultist, incinerating both brain and bone in a split instant that spews ash out of vaporized eye sockets as flakes of brain flutter out of the cultists nose and mouth to fall across the desperately heaving guardsman. The body falls limp atop the Imperial. Blinking rapidly, trying to clear his eyes of the heat flash, he breathes through his nose, smearing the remains of the cultist off of him. He can taste charred bits of skull and burnt hair in his mouth with even viler substances- he nearly vomits. He shoves the corpse off of him, letting it slip beneath the mire.

He struggles to stand as the world is shattered again as yet another bracketing salvo of high-explosive shells smashes into the ground around his deep, waterlogged shelter. Any semblance of the once pristine farmlands was being torn away with each barrage as traitor and imperial batteries dueled each other from entrenched positions miles away. The guardsman ignores all of this like tree ignores a rainstorm.

He leans back against the side of the crater; and again tries to wipe the mud and guts and bits of heretic from his face and only further succeeds in smearing the offal across his blunt and tired features. He vomits weakly; half digested rations spewing down the front of his flak vest. He wipes his mouth and fumbles his lasweapon in his shaking hands- he had thought himself rid of the damned shakes over a decade ago.

The muddy revolver is cold in his grip; he swings out the cylinder and removes the spent microlas capsule, exchanging it with a fresh one. The weapon held only six shots, but each lasbolt was enough to burn clean through carapace armor, the person inside it, and out the back. He fondles the grip; he lets the engravings upon it press into his callused palm, they comfort him, they remind him of home.

It is a weapon that has never yet failed him, he spins it, and slots it home into his holster. The guardsman takes a moment to shut his eyes, silence the daemons in his head, and stop his legs from shaking like a frakking newblood conscript before a charge.

"Sacred-shite, you're better than this,"

He seethes.

"You're Fendoran,"

He smacks himself,

"you're born in the sands,"

He hits himself again,

"you're born proud,"

Another,

"Act like it!"

With a final blow across his face, he takes a long pull from his canteen before the war reminds him of where he stands with yet another salvo of heathen artillery destroying the world outside of the crater and nearly sending him sprawling back into the red tinged water of the crater. He stumbles and packs his canteen away, he then struggles through the mud and guts that make up his surroundings.

This soldier has a name, and it is Hastis. He is an Acolyte of the inquisition, it is a sacred, a coveted position. To him, it is nothing more than a position that has been forced upon him, it is a position he never wanted.

Across from him, nearly buried under a landslide of corpses, coughing and half conscious as his world spun from what was likely a concussion- was another guardsman, strapped to his back was a heavy set of Vox equipment. Heaving, struggling to breathe with almost a quarter of his face torn up from shrapnel this guardsman lurches upwards, pushing half-mulched bodies off of him before falling back down against the slope of the crater.

The front of his flak vest is shredded, bits of metal stick out across its surface; it likely saved his life. Grabbing the guardsman by the shoulders, Hastis hauls him up, steadying him; he methodically begins tearing the worst of the shrapnel from the ruined side of the guardsman's face. He ignores when the vox-carrying guardsman heaves, coughing up chunks of dirt and mud that splatter across Hastis' face, Hastis simply holds him straight and grimaces. He's dealt with this before, the boy just needs to clear his system.

The guardsman's eyes open, panic fading as he begins to breathe in the familiar soot-choked air of a battlefield. Hastis grabs the guardsmans' loose helmet, and slams it back onto the mans head. "Are you with me?" Hastis asks; the simple question is enough to pull the soldier into focus. "Bastards landed a shell just behind us. Knocked us into this crater. Saved our ass, believe it or not." He snorts.

The man coughs again, maybe even laughs, and finally finds his balance. Blood still runs freely from the savaged right side of his face, his helmet is askew, the strap is broken, cut through by the shrapnel. The guardsman wipes the mud from his eyes. Hastis leans in, grabs the radioman by the sides of his helmet; he forces him to look him in the eye. "Can you walk?"

Pausing, blinking, the radioman nods, not saying anything yet, just closing his eyes and trying to breathe as he steadies himself, trying to force his way through the shell-shock. He manages to spit out a few words regardless, "Bastards." He coughs. "Facking heretics… Facking-" Another furious bout of coughing overtakes him.

His name is Lagorn. Inquisitorial Adjutant and Vox Technician.

Hastis smacks Lagorns' vest and nods grimly. The Vox adept has a new priority; reaching down, searching through the mud and the blood he rolls over a corpse, and finds a familiar rifle. He clears the mud from its workings. A standard M35 M-Galaxy pattern. He checks the barrel, clearing any obstructions over the lenses, then he checks the powerpack and finds it half full.

Hastis staggers through the mud, fumbling over the half submerged bodies of heretics and penal legionaries alike. He makes it over to the opposite side of the crater. He crawls over the corpses until he finds one in particular, slumped over, and half buried by filth. Ragged and gaunt features can be made out through the occluding viscera and shit covering its face, Hastis checks for a pulse- he finds one. "Fack." He swears. Even so, he winds back with one arm- and strikes the man across the face. "Wake up,"

Life seems to flow back into limbs. "Wake up, you bastard!" Hastis strikes the man again, shaking him; his teeth grit and contrasted against the murk and grime that was the rest of his face. "Wake. Up." He hits the man again, this time striking him in the gut. "I'm not through seeing you suffer just yet! So don't you facking quit on me!"

The man hiccups, gasping, and then beginning to shout. "-Enough of that! I'm awake, damn you!" Hastis strikes him once more- just to be sure. "Sin on the throne! Do you have to do that?"

"Just making sure, sir." Hastis lies, stepping back.

"I know if you're lying. Hastis." Inquisitor Hyork of the Ordos Hereticus, Lodge Militarum, coughs and stands, his black and red coat is covered with grime and mud. His wizened face is smeared with ash, and there is a deep cut across his scalp that still bleeds, trickling down over his face and into his beard. Only his electric grey-blue eyes are clear, although unfocussed.

"Are you injured at all?" Hastis asks, looking the inquisitor up and down.

The Inquisitor takes a moment to pat himself over, wincing several times as he shifts his weight, stumbling forwards, nearly falling back into the loam, Hastis doesn't move to catch him. "I can move, just let me, just give me my-" Hastis reaches down into the muck, pulling free a long black cane of metal, its handle flecked with brass etchings, he forcefully slaps it into the hands of the the Inquisitor. It was ornamented with various sigils and seals, most prominent of all- despite being but a tiny emblem- was the inquisitorial I.

"Then let's move." Hastis doesn't wait for his superior, he glances over at Lagorn; the Voxman nods and slings his rifle. Another volley of high explosive shells hammers home around them, and despite the protection of the crater they were almost buried, it was fast becoming a dubious safety at best.

"They'll bracket the lines with earthshakers soon. We have to push with the rest of the penals."

Hastis looks skyward, trying to will his eyes into piercing the soot-stained heavens as if he could see the procession of artillery barrages as they spear downwards from the apex of their trajectory.

Stumbling over to him, no amount of grime and mud keeping him from looking alien on such a brutal battlefield, Inquisitor Hyork grabs Hastis by the shoulder. "That's suicide." He snaps, trying to steady himself with his ornate cane but unable to find purchase.

"Might not've been had the facked Astartes not botched their end of the deal." Hastis glares back at the Inquisitor and shrugs off his hand, "Your damned fault we're here in the first place." He says as he makes his way over to Lagorn, the vox-operator is checking over his equipment, the large backpack vox likely took damage from the brutal initial bombardment.

"We're running for the trenches." Hastis grunts.

"The trenches, sir?" Lagorn balks.

"It's their first defensive line." Hastis nods across the lip of the crater. "Heretics won't have it as defended as the latter ones. Penals' should have softened it up enough by this point." Hastis says. "All we have to do is fall in with the penals' and make our push behind them."

"Hard to take you seriously sir, when we already tried that."

Hastis doesn't say anything in return, instead digging his fingers into the sides of the crater, he hauls himself up, rolling over the lip and back into a blood-soaked hell.

It was once a picturesque visage of a feudal world devoted to the God Emperor with hamlets and fields, small villages and townships with dirt roads all leading towards the grand capital. This used to be one of those humble farmsteads with rolling plains of gently whispering golden stalks. On days of harvest, the farmers and children would take to these fields under beautiful clear blue skies with rolling clouds.

Now, the only thing felled on these fields of mud and gore was man.

Out of the crater and onto the battleline, the sound seemed so much clearer, so much more pure and unfiltered as the whizzing shrieks of bullets and the crack of lasguns assaulted them all at once.

The cordite the sulfur, the smell of burning flesh and roaring promethium- every other second the ground would shake as yet another shell buried itself into the land with explosive impact.

Hastis screams, surging forwards with his head tucked low. "Move!"

He does not know if the inquisitor could hear him over the tortured screams of dying men, and the ripple of stubber fire from hardened pillboxes. He dives forwards into the mud as yet further artillery ripped through the sky and tore up the landscape behind them, Hastis can feel the heat wash over his back as a cluster of shells hits, sending legionaries screaming into the beyond. He grabs Hyork by the coat and drags him up with him, sprinting with hunched backs over spent casings and laspacks, Lagorn charges right beside him, a death grip on his rifle.

It is a tidal-wave of bodies surging across a ruined landscape, each individual nothing more than a number sent into hell to be turned into charred chunks of meat as lasers, bolts and bullets snap overhead or burrow into bodies.

Olive drab shapes sprinting through the loam- heavy iron collars around their neck pulling them towards the distant trench of the enemy with electric shocks and threats of assured death. They hold shoddy rifles to their shoulders, squeezing the trigger and spitting out lasbolts at fortified targets. They stumble over bodies, and crawl under razor wire; they use the dead for cover- only moving when the hideous beeping of their collars threatens them with death for their lack of forward momentum.

"Keep low!" Hastis growls, keeping a firm grip on Hyork, holding him down as they scramble across the uncertain terrain. The trenches had already been breached by the penals, but only partially. There were still pockets of resistance, pillboxes and bunkers that needed the attentions of the dedicated shock-assault regiments that were tasked with moving up behind the penal legions.

Hastis again takes the lead, through filthy puddles and crawling around the burning remains of what may have once been farmhouses as the world shrieks again. "Incoming!" Hastis shouts, dropping to the ground he covers his head, opens his mouth, and curls into a ball, behind him; Lagorn does the same, Hyork copying them only after a second of indignation.

It was murder, this battle line. Hemmed in on either side by towering mountain ranges, this singular pass was the only viable means of striking the fortified capital from behind. The ground outside of the mountain pass was turned into a hellish affair of static defenses and trenches pocketed with bunker and mortar emplacements.

Behind those was the city itself, and the great cathedral within, the primary goal of this battle. Even from the ground, amidst the mud, the blood, and the bodies, Hastis could see the reason for all this slaughter: A shimmering iridescent dome. A massive void shield was projected over the city, its surface rippling as heavy ordinance continually pounded into it.

It was the task of the Penal Legions to break through the entrenched positions that guarded the exit of the mountain pass, or, at the very least soften the defenses to such an extent that the next wave of Imperial Guard could break through with minimal losses in men and machines. In truth, this would have been a task that the Astartes should have been given, but they reported that they did not have the numbers nor the equipment to deal with such entrenched fortifications.

The majority of their numbers were tasked with assisting the other guard regiments in combating the hordes of macabre cyborg tanks that the twisted adepts of the arch enemy had been creating. Entire towns. Had been converted into hellish machine-pits that processed the civilian population into strange and grotesque machine beasts.

The fiends of the Lash were intent on turning this world into a factory that welded together metal with bone and sinew. That left the Penal Legions, a single guard regiment, and a small detachment of Astartes to take the Cathedral that served as this planets capital. It was a task that would have been made easier though no less bloody had it not been for the enemy's heavy artillery camps- camps that were supposed to be silenced by the team of Astartes that had deigned to assist the operation.

They had clearly failed, or met some form of resistance. Hastis dearly hoped that it was simple bad intelligence that had seen them fail in their task. Hastis was not sure if the meagre resources dedicated to pacifying this planet would be able to handle something that was capable of wiping out an astartes detachment.

The bombardment stops for a moment, and Hastis reckons that they had a minute or more until the next salvo is fired. His ears still ringing, he uncurls and surveys his surrounding, his head pounding in time with his heart. He was still alive. Hastis could unclench his teeth, then he was moving, pulling Hyork with him, struggling forwards under wire and through mud. It was a typical killing field: littered with bodies of cannon fodder penal legionaries, some were even still alive as the reserves once again began streaming across the field towards a line of trenches and a wall of guns further beyond.

The three make it to the lip of the first trench line, already bought with the lives of thousands of condemned men, and nearly made useless by the constant pounding of heretic artillery fire. They roll into it, tearing up their flesh as flattened razor wire catches on their uniforms and cuts into their skin. Hastis presses himself into the trench wall, breathing hard. His hands are torn up and bleeding badly, he doesn't notice. The soft earthen works are a small sanctuary that every infantryman learns to appreciate.

Hastis glanced up and down the trench they occupied. They weren't alone to make it in, other penal troopers had reached its relative safety. "We need to move on the bunkers."

Lagorn nods, already flipping open his wrist-mounted cogitator, its wires running up his arm and into the vox unit on his back. He scans through the channels, the chatter filtering into his helmet. Hyork remains silent, nursing a wound on his side, it was bleeding pretty heavily.

The trench was filled with dead men, some still dying. Legionaries, sigil scarred cultists, and slaves. Hastis bent down, turning over several legionary corpses, stripping them of several trivialities and policing several laspacks that he knew would could come in handy. He tossed a sparsely filled and half- ruined the medical kit to the inquisitor. Hyork fumbled open the medicinal pouch, several syrets spilled out as the inquisitor tried to still his shaking hands.

"This is filled with more narcotics than there is anything useful." Hyork noted.

"It ain't meant to save their life, sir, just make 'em fight through the pain." Lagorn said. "No use wasting anything important on a dead man." He commented before setting his helmet straight once again.

"Couldn't agree more." Hastis stood up, Lagorn helped the inquisitor wrap a bandage under his coat but over the grey undershirt that was doubtlessly made of woven flak material. Although it hadn't done anything to stop the knife that had given him the wound in the first place.

"Should help for now." Lagorn said. Hyork sighed, looking up as Hastis approached.

"Take this," Hastis forced a plundered laspistol into the inquisitor's hands. The man scrutinized the weapon before looking back up at Hastis. "You know I don't need one of these."

"Take it anyways." Hastis insisted. "Can you use it?"

"Of course," Hyrok stood tall, sounding indignant before Hastis yanked him back down.

"Keep. Low." He hissed through grit teeth. "I thought you said you knew you about warfare?"

Hyrok muttered something indiscernible under his breath, and then they were moving once more.

The trenches were barley wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. Each corner was a right angle meant for a single person to stick their weapon around and unload blindly. The lips of the trenches were covered in razor wire with sandbag palisades, if a man wanted to move without getting their head blasted apart they had to crouch.

To Hastis, most trenches built by cultists were little better than a pre-filled mass grave. They were things dug in haste and constructed by unskilled hands who only ever saw a trench on munitorium propaganda posters. Lazily reinforced with plywood and bags of dirt, they were already set to collapse, a coordinated artillery bombardment would have smashed them to pieces.

Not these trenches, these were deep dug winding constructs that were properly reinforced with rebar and even plywood floors. They had firing slits and gantries, even alcoves set into the walls for stockpiles. This wasn't the work of fools, and Hastis noted that most of the bodies around them were Penal troopers rather than sigil scarred heretics.

Either the heretics had only lightly manned these trenches, or more likely they never expected to hold the first defensive line and therefore only let the battle-fiends hold these expendable positions so as to soak up losses that their more veteran units could ill afford to suffer. The enemy had counter attacked out of the trenches when the battle began after a preliminary bombardment.

Madmen brandishing hacksaws and clubs, they showed no discipline, and simply rushed to meet the wave of penal legionaries in close combat instead of holding back in their trenches, as even a simple manned trench could be effectively held for an extended period of time.

They kept low, Hastis in the lead, trying to listen over the barrage of artillery that slammed home with almost dogmatic consistency, spraying dirt and shrapnel into the trenches. The guardsman stopped suddenly, he held up his hand and took a knee, "Ears open, listen."

"Listen to what? I can't hear a damn thing after all this noise." Hyork griped, he wasn't wrong. The artillery barrage was heating up. Smashing into the earth around them but instead of focussing on the overrun trenches, the impacts fell further behind the trenches, inside the enemies own lines. Hastis took note of it, but it wasn't what had his attention at the moment.

"Just shut up and listen." He snaps.

"Don't you dare stop, you cretins! Every last one of you- keep pushing! Clog the barrels of their guns with your intestines if you have to!"

Bawling out over the war-born orchestra was a clearly vox-augmented voice. There was no tact required when commanding a penal legion. Its operation was simple, its purpose clear. It was an instrument of penance and cold logic. A commander would select an enemy position, and then drown it in bodies.

Made up of the filth of the imperial guard and bolstered by the countless overflowing prison worlds of the Imperium, the penal legions of mankind were given the dubious glory of being the first to die at the guns of the enemy. They were thrown into the grinder by the uncaring men at the back of the line- the Prefects.

Standing straight, assuredly exposing herself to the guns of the enemy, she lashed out with hateful words. Her sneer as biting as any sword, she was surrounded by countless shock-maul wielding military arbites, thrumming warshields ready and mauls sparking with energy. "More bodies on the field- next wave charge!"

Countless legionaries, pushed up over the trench wall by those at their backs met their end almost at once. A tidal-wave of dirt and shrapnel blew the charging legionaries apart. Hastis watched as the prefect sent yet more legionaries into the midst of a heavy artillery barrage. He cursed and shook his head.

"Next wave! Charge!" Her augmetic voice shrieked, nearly giving out as she thrust outwards with her chainsword. Again more legionaries vaulted over the trench wall and into the chaos of a heavy artillery bombardment- but this time, several hesitated for an instant- an instant too long, their heads popping as the keen eyed prefect put lasbolts through their skulls- urging on the others through their execution.

"Prefect?" Hyork called out; the prefect didn't respond for a moment, before turning around, her shield wall parting to let her through. She eyed them, as mechanical as the grilled vox-hailer that replaced her mouth.

"Inquisitor?" She asked, "I had assumed you dead."

"Nearly." Hastis nodded. "Shells went wide, knocked us about. Got lucky."

"Not lucky enough, it would seem. You have yet to meet with the Emperor." The prefect nodded. Hastis withheld a groan. He loved The Emperor as much as the next man but a zealot was always a pain to deal with.

"So it would seem, Prefect. Regardless of that, would you give us a summery of the situation?" Hyork shouted, replying with far more tact than Hastis was capable of.

"The heretics are just over the way, Inquisitor, holed up within the second line of defenses. The moment their first line fell, they rolled back their bombardment to block us from assaulting their secondary defensive line." She jerked her head to the roiling storm of explosions behind her. It was only by the virtue of her Vox that Hastis could even understand her. "It is the perfect chance for redeeming these wretches- next wave!" She shouted, and again another miserable line of scum cowering in the trenches was forced over the lip of the trench.

Nearly two dozen men dying at once as an air-burst mortar barrage detonated a meter above the ground and ripped the men apart. Hastis, Hyork, and Lagorn all hit the deck. The prefect was unmoving in return, scowling at yet another failed charge, but it was unlikely that she was expecting anything but.

"Should they fail- as this scum likely will- it matters not." The legionary overlord continues. "Their duty is to be ground into meat so as to pave the road with their corpses."

"They're doing a fine job of it, it would seem." Hyork muttered to himself, familiar in his grim humor, another wave was sent over the trench wall, and another wave died. Hastis remained silent. It did not go unnoticed.

"The artillery." He finally said. "They've stopped the blocking bombardment." It takes countless battles and exposure to heavy guns and their report to hear it, especially over the explosions of heavy ordinance, but a soldier can learn to pick out the distant report of cannons, and time them to the impact of their shells. The backdrop of war- artillery, is white-noise to most guard veterans, and when it goes away- the silence is all the louder.

Hastis couldn't make out the sound of distant heavy guns, only lighter mortars. True to his prediction in several seconds, the bombardment had ceased, and a pall of dust and smoke hung over no-mans-land. Hastis stared, as if his eyes could see past the thick fog of smoke and ash.

"Not good." Hastis cursed. "It isn't?" Hyork questioned.

"Hah!" The Prefect cackled. She raised her sword and waved at the remaining legionaries. "Over the top! While their guns fail them!"

Hastis bolted upright, "Wait, somethings-" He shouted at the prefect, at the legionaries, his voice fell on deaf ears as the legionaries stood upright, hauling themselves over the edge of the trench to begin their charge through the fading smoke of the barrage.

Smoke.

Hastis smelled the air. Curling white smoke. This wasn't the ash or dust that a bombardment kicks up, that would have faded by now. What he was looking at- rolling over no-mans-land was smoke. Concealment. There was only one reason why the enemy would do this.

A wave of sound- like the roar of some great beast, or the laughing of a mad god- washed over the field like a cloud of palpable dread. Even as the last legionary disappeared into the smoke Hastis could heart the thumping of hundreds of feet trampling over corpses.

"Enemy counter-attack!" Hastis screams. Hyork strains to say something in the face of what could only be summarized as an encroaching wave of hate. Dread pulled at the old inquisitors tired features.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

In the face of the oncoming tide of madmen, Hastis desperately searches, reaching down he grabs a dead legionaries lasgun. The sound of charging feet are closer now, echoing through the smoke. "Lagorn!" He shouts, the voxman pushes Hyork aside and shoulders his own rifle, aiming over the lip of the trench. "I'm with you, sir!" The voxman shouts back. Hastis rests his cheek against the stock of the plundered rifle, noting the sickly sweet smell of blood that seems to permeate the air as the cultists approach.

He never wanted to be part of the damned inquisition.

"Open up!" Hastis shouts, he pulls the trigger, he doesn't bother aiming- it's impossible to miss- and red beams stitch through the smoke, burning through the air and vanishing into the white, illuminating it from within and giving the area around the bolts a sickly red glow. Lagorn fires on fully automatic, burning through his pack as he fans his lasrifle back and forth, low, close to the ground, trying to blow the legs off of the charging heretics.

The facking old man, Throne damned Hyork, he had ruined everything.

They emerge- a brute of a man, smeared red and bellowing at the top of his lungs manifests out of the smoke. Shapes materialize behind him as he charges headlong towards the trench. Hastis snaps his lasgun up and aims.

He didn't want to die here.

Hastis squeezes the trigger. The head of the madman snaps back as the lasbeam blows through his skull and incinerates his brain- his body falling limp. With Lagorn next to him, the scene repeats for the next trio of cultists, lasbolts burning through ragged cloth or cratering the bare chests of the heathens as they leap into trench, hysterical with rage, armed with only crude weapons and some not even armed at all- their hands curled into claws or fists, their teeth sharpened to nail points.

Hastis watches form the corner of his eye as Hyork takes on a different aspect, he has his laspistol aimed and firing, he pulls the trigger with succinct curtness, taking his time to direct his shots despite the mass of flesh before him. The aged inquisitor doesn't flinch from the erupting melee, bullets snap through the air around him but he hardly pays them any mind, simply stepping to the side every so often and letting a lead round fill the space he had once occupied.

The bulk of the charging horde hits the trench. A screaming hulk of rippling muscle, bulling over the lip, one of the cultists tackles an arbite, and by the time a boltpistol is pressed flush against his skull he has already eaten through the arbites throat, and by the time the bolt blows apart his head, three more of these fiends have crashed into the others and they are lost from view.

"Prefect! To me!" The Inquisitor pockets his pistol- powerpack empty, he grabs his cane and twists, along its length a blade emerges, and glows with brilliant white light, the head of the cane turns and straightens, forming to his grip. The Preceptor, howling her battle hymns only gives the faintest sign of acknowledgment, her remaining shield-bearing enforcers shifting around her, power-mauls crackling with energy.

"This is our stand!" She bellows, her bolt pistol ejects a cascade of shells as she holds down the trigger, emptying an entire stack in a matter of moments- the trench before her exploding into a gore heap as mass reactive rounds tear through legionary and cultist alike. "No mercy only death! Only duty! Only the Emperor!"

There was no battle cry or epitaphs from Hastis and Lagorn, just inarticulate screaming, and the animalistic lexicon of grunts and shouting as the horde fell upon them, bodies seeming to blot out the sky as they jumped into the trench.

Hastis emptied half of his lasguns powerpack into the first two, he had no time to even remember what they looked like, what horrid brands they wore, nor their scars or ritual markings, they were the enemy, and they needed to die. Hastis moved to shoulder the lasgun, but the confines of the trench were quickly becoming to cramped, he shifted, lifted the barrel, aimed from the hip, and held down the trigger.

Superheated beams of light punched holes in unarmored cultists, searing through flesh, boiling blood, burning bone and stitching a line of charred meat through the dogs of the dark powers.

Hastis whipped around, grabbing the barrel of his weapon- ignoring how it scalded his hands- he smashes the stock over the head of a cultists that had thought to spear him through the back with a crude blade. He kept ahold of the bent lasgun, swinging it back around and into the gut of some mutant thing with too many arms.

It grabbed the bent piece of metal that was once a lasrifle, and Hastis let it have it. A snap-step back, and Hastis feels the bulky shape of a Vox caster against his back as he did so. He needn't think twice to know that it was Lagorn- his brother, his closest comrade.

Hastis rips his revolve free from its holster- fanning the hammer, he held down the trigger, each shot tore chunks out of the mutant, each lasbolt powerful enough to dig a hole in the trench wall before dissipating. The chamber turns and a desultory whine is all he hears- he's out of power, but that doesn't mean he's without a weapon.

He spins the revolver around in his hand, he catches the heavy metal handgun by the barrel, despite its recent eruption, cool to the touch. He shouts- a roar ripping up his throat as he hauls back and clubs the reinforced plasteel grip across the head of a traitor. The bald, scarred head of the heathen snaps down as the grip clobbers his skull- Hastis sets him right again, slamming the grip back up in a reverse swing, crunching the jaw of the madman shut- his tongue flopping uselessly into the mud as he bites it off.

With a final third swing, Hastis roars and smashes the mans nose back into this face with a powerful blow. The madman staggers back, limp and choking. Hastis spits, spinning his revolver, he deftly slips it back into its holster, there he draws his blade, he nearly loses his grip when something sharp yet blunt smashes into his side. Hastis grunts, the weapon then drawn out and slammed back home again.

Hastis whips around, ignoring the pain, his arm sliding out like a striking snake, he gores the cultist responsible for wounding him through the neck before cutting his way back out. The cultist stumbles back, trying to hold his ruined throat closed. Hastis stumbles, grunting from a savage blow slamming across his back, spinning him around.

A hulking brute of muscle with a blunt iron club sneers down at him, hauling back for another strike with his weapon in the close-in confines of the hellish trench. Hastis doesn't give him the chance to strike again. Hastis slams forwards, barging into the cultist, from behind, clawed hands try to grapple him, ripping into his skin- he was surrounded.

Hastis rips his knife into the brutes gut, letting the serrated edge dig into flesh and tear through guts, he yanks it back and forth, carving through meet, as much damage as he could do in as short an amount of time as he could manage. Ripping the blade out he jumps back- fighting for distance when in truth he had none. All he succeeded in doing was jumping back into the crowd of maniacs with blades and claws, but it was worth it- seeing the brutish cultist drop his club so that he might clutch at his unspooling guts.

He doesn't drink in the death like the wastrels around him, he spins on his heel and smashes his fist across the next closest man and elbows another in the ribs. It's all out combat, he hasn't the time to appreciate the end of his enemies. A shrieking banshee reaffirms this, barreling towards him, knocking others out of her way just so that she can close the distance- Hastis sidesteps her charge, kicks her in the back and sends her careening into another.

He dodges a clumsy swing, countering, he slams his knife up to the hilt in the mans throat before spinning away and smashing his fist into the scarred face of a boy no more than ten years old. He plunges his knife through the reeling Childs eye socket, and with a snarl, he kicks the dead boy away from him and into the melee beyond. Instinct shrieks in the back of his mind, and he spins around again in time to catch another frenzied cultist across the face with his knife, the cultist can only snarl in inarticulate response, frothing at the lips.

Madness gives the man fortitude, letting him ignore the bleeding wound across his face, his eyes shot with rage. With his fingers curled like claws he lunges at Hastis, and Hastis roars back, smashing this heretic across the face with his torn up fist and then delivering a quick jab to the cultists stomach, Hastis doesn't get the chance to finish the man when something smashes Hastis across the back of his head from behind.

He is thrown forwards- reaching out he catches a cultist by the throat and drags him down to the ground. He pulls the heretic ontop of him, using the madman as a shield - blows and fists rain down across the cultists back and Hastis rips into his guts with his knife, gutting him, his blood washes down over his blade and across his waist. He brings up his foot and kicks the dying cultist-turned-shield off of him and into the crowd with enough force to knock several of the bastards off balance and giving him the space to fight his way back to his feet.

Hands- gnarled and callused -a farmers hands- wet with blood grab him, dragging him up, Hastis is quick to respond, his knife flashing like a silver snake, once again lodging itself into the eye of the bastard grabbing him, and before he can secure his grip on his knife Hastis is thrown back- slamming into the trench wall as three, four- no five- six madmen rush him.

Hastis screams through a clenched jaw, covering his head as several cudgels and knives bite into his arms and crack against his deteriorating flak-vest, he catches one heretics swing by the wrist even as he nocks away a trench-axe lusting for his skull. He kicks one of the heretics feet out from under him, the bloody mud of the trench working against them as the battle transitions into a brawl, a cultist lunges at Hastis and the guardsman chokes a scream out as something skewers into his side, sliding under his armor and into the flesh beneath.

Hastis bites down on the pain- he batters it into submission as he grapples the heretic responsible- using him as a shield even as the hateful heathen grinds his shiv deeper into Hastis' flesh, mindlessly set on killing Hastis, his spittle flying in his face as he howled his insane prayers to a dark and uncaring deity.

Hastis needs a weapon- gathering his quickly diminishing strength, he throws the Heretic off of him, his gut wrenching in pain as whatever was lodged within him was torn out. Then he sees the length of straight steel embedded up to the hilt in the chest of a dead cultist. He jumps and dives. He reaches out and grabs the rubberized grip of his knife, lusting for the simple weapon like it was the very steps to the golden throne.

His fingers are broken- he only notices it when he can't get a firm grip- his pointer and index finger- both bent backwards and out of joint, and his pinky is twisted around at a completely wrong angle. Like an afterthought, grinning as he does so- he snaps them back into place. The pain is not absent but it is unnoticed, like a singular raindrop cascading into a flood.

Hastis scrambles to his feet, holding his knife out before him like some sort of ward against the madmen- two of which are already throwing themselves at him with that self-same disregard for their own lives. A flurry of arms and elbows from every side, Hastis hacks and cuts- plunging his knife into bodies and ripping through throats with his serrated edge as the trench fight dissolves into irregular madness at every angle.

He cracks a cultist across the head with the pommel of his knife, with a quick twist and flick of the blade, and he punches its tip back through the gut of another, its glinting surface grinding against bone and parting muscle before he pulls it back out- the squall of gore that follows as it's hooked tip pulls at meat and sinew is lost in the blood and mud below.

There's a keening howl screaming at him to his left- he has not even seconds left to react but all the same his mind sprints ahead- trained reflexes, hard-won experience, bitter animosity, and the furious barking memories of drill-instructors forcing their way to the fore of his mind as the sound of a chainsword rips into his consciousness.  
Hastis twists around, leaning back- just ducking out of the way of the hungry grinding teeth of a red-splattered weapon that has carved its name across the galaxy since the days of the great heresy.

The analytical part of Hastis' brain thunders in time with his racing heart- his mind picking out seemingly insignificant details- the man holding the chainsword was lean, wiry and spry. He was holding the chainsword in a two handed grip- it was an Imperial Guard or PDF variant measuring a foot and a half in length. The man wasn't wearing shoes or boots, he was barefoot. He had an old cut just under his left eye, keeping it partially squinted shut.

He had his right hand over the left on the grip. He was swinging with his biceps- forcing the weight of the chainsword, rather than letting the power of a strike flow along the arms and out through the wrist. He was leading with his left leg, and right arm. He had swung from his right shoulder down across the body, trying to hack off Hastis' head.

He was screaming.

He was screaming and his strike was inefficient.

He was likely out of breath.

Hastis struck, his movements like clockwork. He stepped in close, gliding across the slick muddy surface, he grabbed the cultists right arm by the wrist with his left hand, and arrested the down-swung chainsword with his right leg, forcing the flat back of the sword-guard against his shin while he stomped down on the heretics leading foot with his left boot. He flicked his knife, tossing it upwards, and with his right hand now free, he grabbed the pommel of the heretics chainsword and pulled upwards while he pushed down with his left hand against the heretics wrist.

The Chainsword practically peeled out of the heretics grip and slid into Hastis' own, it was an awkward reversed hold but it didn't matter as Hastis pulled it upwards and pressed the growling chain up over the heretics side- his breathless shriek turning into a gasping gurgle as the chainsword lurched into the body of the cultist, being pulled in as the whirling chain growled in hunger. With it stuck in like this Hastis didn't need two hands. His left hand snapped out and caught his knife before it could hit the ground.

Hastis spins away from the gurgling cultists, ripping the chainsword free he flips it around in his right hand and catches the grip, the bulky melee weapon is heavy in his hand but unlike the cultist that had held it previously, Hastis knew how to make the most out of it. Hastis stands with his back to the trench wall, his back hunched his eyes peeled and pupils dilated like tiny pinpricks of hateful savagery. Cultists, dozens of them, piling in on either side of him, jeer and spit, not yet suicidal enough to rush in just yet- not after what they just saw. Some of them still had some semblance of self preservation.

"Fack me sober," Hastis hisses with a spit lip. "How many more of you are there?"

Hastis looked to his left, he saw cultists. He looked to his right. More Cultists. They weren't charging him. Not yet.

So he charged them. Lagorn would have likely had some pithy one-liner.

Snarling, raging, Hastis lurches over the muck and the bodies, and brings his pilfered chain blade down into the morass of shapes, blood and viscera explodes over his vision as the high pitched whine of the blade ratchets down into a throaty growl that tells him of contact. Before he can rip try and rip the chain blade free from its new unwilling recipient a shape rushes him, he doesn't recognize the colors so that makes it fair game, he ducks under the swing and lashes out with his knife, he drags it across a throat and a body joins the pile.

Something rips into his thigh, he lurches forwards and a club smashes him across the face. The impact sends him backwards, he lets the momentum yank the chainsword free, he swings the howling length of teeth and metal in a frenzy- letting it twist him around, the whine turns into a growl as it impacts into something fleshy, something made of meat. He holds the lever down and it cuts and chews- and then it coughs and dies, the growl turns to a squeal as the chain catches on something unyielding and the track is clogged internally. A grunt of hate and he lets it go, he flicks his left wrist- sending his knife from his left hand twirling into his right, he flips it around and holds it tight.

"Back to basics-" He slurs, drool flecked with red dribbles over his chin, mixing with sweat and grime. He wasn't all that upset about losing the chainsword. He was better with a knife anyways. "In the sands," He chants.

Blood was smearing his vision, shapes moving all around him. Sound- roaring, like an ocean, like a raging river, a torrent of blood pounding in his head, fire racing through his veins. Every breath scorching his throat, all the pain telling him he's alive, that he's fighting- killing. He steps inside of a blow, he catches the wrist, and his knife throttles up through the jaw of a foe, ripping back out with bits of brain sticking to the groove. He spins- crouching low and stepping back behind the falling body, letting the next cultist stumble over the corpse. Extending forwards now, thrusting like a spear, locking up his arm and twisting into the thrust- plasteel punching through a mans nose and up into his brain. Too many.

There was just too many. No use in coordination, no help from training, there was just nothing to combat their numbers. He doesn't scream- Hastis doesn't scream, he refuses to scream- even as a spiked club smashes into his thigh he just grits his teeth and grunts as more blows fall onto him, he raises his arms like a boxer, guarding his head as he's bullied back against the trench wall.

Countless heretic bastards screaming in his face, as he desperately fends them off, more red splattering over him and coating his body with every slash of his knife before he's knocked across the face again with a hammer- his nose crunches and breaks as he's pulled to the ground.

He smashes his elbow into what looked like a face, pain staining his vision into a blurred together mess against the red foreground. He smashes his broken fist into a neck, a chest, again, again, until something breaks and hands wrap around his throat, cutting off his breath. Words- shouting, he makes them out through the panoply of violence surrounding his existence- Lagorn:

"Support-" Lagorn screams, Hastis grins, roaring through the blood staining his teeth; he smashes his elbow back against the cultist strangling him. "Inbound-"

A roar, louder than the cultists and louder than his own, shrieks overhead.

Hastis can only think 'Airstrike' and he braces for the rush of wind before the shockwave and the fire, but it doesn't come, in his thrashing struggle against the cultists holding him down, Hastis can only make out a whirlwind of green and brown falling from the sky.

It was over in seconds. The trench was no longer a defensive fortification. It was a grave, a charnel pit, and Hastis was lying in the mire of it. There was blood up to the ankles, floating with bits of human meat bobbing along the surface like some horrid, saccharine stew.

Overhead, flying just over the nape of the earth, screaming speeders let loose with brutal weapons over no-mans-land to tear up the enemy trenches with blisters of high explosive rounds and shrieking missiles. Even more deadly were the giants that leapt from the speeders, landing amongst the rabble, tossing grenades into firing slits and breaking into fortified positions, all while not speaking a word.

Leave it to the Astartes to steal all the credit.

Hastis struggled to his feet- still riding along the waves of a combat high, his body did not yet understand how badly damaged it was, but his mind knew well enough. Hastis spat blood.

A good head and shoulders taller than him, muscled like a young ogryn, but time and again more intelligent, Hastis couldn't help but notice that they didn't wear the armor that there were always depicted in. He could count roughly ten of them, all wearing lighter armor made out of shaped carapace plating that covered the vitals without restricting the movements of the wearer.

Their colors were ochre brown and forest green, with a dull argent silver trim. Their weapons were forged of black plasteel with burnished wooden stocks; shotguns, long-barrel bolters, axes, and heavy metal quarterstaves. They each had decoration's on their armor and shoulder-plates that Hastis didn't bother to understand- aside from the stylized white Gothic VI that every one of them carried along with a twisting tree icon emblazoned over a yellow sun.

One of the marines stepped over to Hastis, the blood-water of the trench not even splashing as he moved. This one was holding a silver metal quarterstaff easily taller than Hastis. The marine was a grim looking, dour and taciturn figure with steel-blue eyes and several studs driven into his skull. His features were chiseled and hard, faint scars ran over his face.

His carapace armor was decidedly older in appearance, worn and faded by time and combat, but it also bore several distinct decorations along the shoulders in the form of what looked to be thorny bramble vines interwoven into the armor's trim. Wrapped over his shoulder like a cape was a chameleon cloak, but unlike the other marines he was the only one who wore such a piece of advanced equipment. The marine stopped in front of Hastis, his expression betraying no emotion as he looked Hastis over, waiting for the guardsman to speak first.

Hastis stood his ground and looked the marine right back in the eyes with a flinty glare. He wasn't going to break first- not to a damned marine.

If the marine was at all impressed by Hastis' obstinance, he didn't show it. The Marine tipped his staff towards Hastis and spoke in that low, gravely tone that Hastis remembered all too well. "You are wounded." He said it as if the Guardsman didn't know it himself, or, if the Marine didn't know what else to say.

Hastis grunted. "I didn't notice." He didn't look down at himself. He didn't really want to see just how bad it was. A moment of silence passed before the marine spoke again.

"You did well holding as long as you did." Hastis grunted, dragging his knife along his filthy sleeve, trying to clear the worst of the gore from its length before he slots it home into the sheath across his now ruined flak-vest. The Marine cocked his head as Hastis did so. Taking a passing glance at several of the cultist corpses. "Most guardsmen abstain from melee." The marine says, it was likely Hastis' own bias playing into effect but he thinks the marine sounds incredulous.

"Yeah, well, most guardsmen aren't me." Hastis spits back.

The marine nods to the chest rig of his combat knife. "Double-edged serrated plasteel. Non-reflective finish. Quick release snap-sheath with silent draw padding." He observes. "Stormtroopers?" He asks.

"Fendoran twenty-second light-reconnaissance, third stormtrooper auxiliaries." Hastis tries to hold back a cough- all he succeeds in is leaking a lungful of blood past his lips. He staggers, losing his balance as a sudden wave of vertigo crashes over him.

The marine catches him by the shoulder and nods to one of his brothers.

"Votar. See to this one." It was only at this point that Hastis allowed himself to pass out.

...

**AN: If you leave a review, I will reply and/or kiss you on the lips. #LorgarIsTheBigGay**


	3. The 76th

**AN/: I once used a glass-jar full of twizzlers to beat a rat to death. **

...

Remnant was dying.

And she was helpless to stop it.

It had only ever been a sinister, malignant thought up until now, but with the collapse of the CCT and Beacon in the hands of Salem, the realization of what should have only been the worst nightmare imaginable was slowly clawing its way from the realm of dreams, into the waking world beyond. The Nightmare in question had started with the Death of Vale. Though, calling it a 'Death' was a bit dramatic, it was none the less the case. It just took a cynical eye to see it. Glynda gasps and slams the flask back down, coughing as the hard mixture seared her throat. She growl and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

She could drink with the best of them, but she had her limits like everyone else.

The blonde headmistress looks in disdain at the flask, she hesitates, half tempted to drain the rest of it- and then with a curse she flings it across the room where it thuds against the wall, leaving a dent, the contents therein leaking out onto the floor. Glynda swears violently, a string of epithets falling from her lips as she cradles her head. Just her luck.

This was her life now. She was Headmistress. Ozpin was gone, and she was left to clean up the mess. It was bullshit but she didn't have much of a choice, unless she was willing to just hand the rest of Vale over to Salem. She had to endure, but was afraid that she didn't have what it took. She was always at her strongest when she had a clear direction to follow, a person to fall into step behind and execute the will of without question. Now, now she was the one who gave the orders, the person in charge of all the academy aligned hunters in Vale.

Like that mattered at all.

She couldn't get into long range contact with any teams that were outside of the main cities. There were dozens of teams patrolling the outskirts of Vale, protecting small settlements from Grimm attacks and White Fang terrorists. What did this leave her in the Main City of Vale? Not enough. Nowhere near enough. All she had were a few mewling teams of doe-eyed rookies who thought that they could make mommy and daddy proud.

In effect- she had Nothing.

It was enough to make her want to Scream.

Glynda sighed. Maybe she should retire. Foist the problem onto someone else and just relax in the countryside alone with a fine wine and pretty sunset. Maybe a candlelit bath with her favorite music playing. She could watch it all burn from a comfortable distance, and then disappear. It would be so much easier that way, then what she had to put up with now. Glynda Goodwitch, the now Headmistress of Beacon Academy, at last took a withering gaze down at the heinous stack of documents currently occupying a large portion of her desk and felt another headache coming on.

She cradled her head in her hands, wishing that she hadn't tossed that flask away, so that she could just idly slip away from the pain and fall back into some more convenient and pleasant alcohol-induced memories. Each time she did so, however, she would always eventually come back to the present. The impossibility of her situation seemed to dwarf any short bursts of determination that she might muster up, and any attempts at escapism would just hold the problems piling up around her at bay for a little while. Honestly, retiring, and taking her leave seemed like the only sensible option left to her.

To further her misfortune, Glynda readily knew that the sensible option wasn't always the right choice. There was no one else even remotely capable of handling this, she was the only one. If she were to back out, that would mean leaving whatever was left of Beacon Academy to the Council, who was more than willing to turn belly-up and hand it over to Atlas.

Glynda would rather die than see that happen.

So, like countless times before, the Headmistress took a moment to compose herself. She fixed her hair, adjusted her glasses and put on that mask of stoic disapproval that she had so long ago mastered. She knew that it wouldn't last long. Things were falling apart. No, things had already fallen apart. She was just trying to hold together whatever was left.

Beacon was still in the hands of Salem, attacks by the beasts against the perimeter of Vale City had become a daily occurrence. Civilians were pulled back from the border, forced to abandon their homes in order to make way for the Vale City Militia and the regular army.

The Police were largely tasked with handling the citizens, and so far it seemed to be working, but Glynda knew that it was only a matter of time before tempers would begin to flare. The number of civilians that the Police and local shelters had to handle right now was minimal, most were being pressed into the militia- but no forced conscription yet. But the number of refugees was rising by the day. The outlying cities of the kingdom were suffering from Grimm raids, and many were fleeing into the inner cities for salvation, and with each city that fell, the number of refugees increased exponentially.

The demand for hunters was ever-present. The Military and the Militia wanted Hunters for operations against the Grimm or for use as convoy escorts. The Police wanted Hunters for countering illegal activity within the cities. The Council wanted hunters for clandestine operations against the Grimm that still occupied Beacon. The demand for Hunters within Vale was at an all time high.

And where there is a demand, did appear a supplier.

The Contractors.

Glynda felt the headache she had been trying to suppress surge into reality. She groaned.

_The Contractors…_

Her near constant headache would always worsen at the thought of them. Soulless corporations that hired and outfitted hunter groups. The Academies were supposed to be the only authority when it came to Hunters operating within the Kingdoms, managing and controlling every team, holding them accountable for their actions. These outside companies were nothing like that. Mercenaries more than anything, they took contracts that any self-respecting Academy-Taught Hunter would balk at. These ranged from smuggling missions, to espionage, to far more illicit affairs.

Mistral was known to be the most common outfitters for these groups, and more often than not, outfitters from the corporations could be found poaching graduates of Mistral and Vacuo academies. _Paramore Inc, Keystone Operations, Blackout Industries, Fire Glaive_, and _Frostbite Applied Security Tactics- 'F.A.S.T'_ were the big five, three of them were based in Mistral itself, the latter two paying homage to Atlas, having the dubious reputation of being the Atlasian militaries '_Wetwork_' contractors. Charged and subcontracted out to do the jobs that the military hegemony of Atlas would rather keep their hands clean from.

Vale had always struggled with combating the influences of these sorts of groups. Ozpin had made a name off of doing so. Mercenary Hunters had no accountability when backed by a large corporate entity. The rules and strictures mandated by the council and the academies didn't apply to them. Ozpin had argued that it was better for the kingdoms to rely on the Academies rather than the services of shadowy faceless organizations that were willing to hire any number of disgraced or reprehensible Hunters with questionable morals and sordid pasts.

The problem, is that while Ozpin had talked a good game, he had lacked in following it up. The Outfitters offered lucrative contracts for any Hunters willing to sign on with them. They provided benefits, a bi-weekly paycheck, they covered travel expense and technical support, they even provided advanced training and simulation courses. Corporate hunter groups far outstripped academy based Hunter teams in terms of tech and training.

There was also the fact that Academy students often went into the field blind, the corporations on the other hand would often devote platoon-sized field teams to supporting their Hunters with medical and mechanical aid, even fire-support.

The only thing that the Privet sector Hunters couldn't do was participate in the yearly festivals, but even then, those were declining in popularity. Their were groups in the Private sector that were starting to develop their own reality-vid series to be broadcast in Atlas and Mistral if the rumors were anything to go by. Supposedly they were going to be shows about 'The Dark Kingdoms', in reference to Vale and Vacuo both being cut off from the CCT network.

Glynda looked at the first of the massive pile of documents on her desk. It was a notice of terminated deployment by the southern Vale City garrison in regards to one of the two rookie Hunter teams that Glynda had allowed to be placed under the command of the garrison commander. The reason for them being sent back to her, was that the council had signed off on a deal with Keystone Operations and bought the services of what was commonly known in the Privet sector, as a 'Special Operators Group.' It wasn't yet a full package deal, that much Glynda could sigh in relief about. But, in a way, Glynda maybe would have preferred a SOG Team, since the deal that had gone through was a deal with Keystone. This meant that they were gonna be sending in one of their Teams. "Commandos." A group of Hunters with limited support, but packing everywhere else it mattered.

It left Glynda seething as she read the report. This wasn't the first instance of the Council caving into pressure from the Privet Sector. They were offering discounts and deals on their services, but it was all a ploy to open up the doors for them to operate legally within Vale Kingdom without needing Council permits and authorization. Once they got the go ahead, the long-standing precedent of Vale being the only Kingdom to not fully endorse privet sector security forces would be over.

Paramour and Frostbite were already given the go ahead to run operations in support of the Military and the Militia. Paramour was more than anything interested in further increasing its self-image in the eyes of the public at large. Their Hunter teams were more Idols and Performers than they were actual Hunters. So far, it had only been small scale deals, nothing too serious. Just a few squads of Privet Sector Hunters patrolling the streets, keeping the peace by just being there. But with rumors of F.A.S.T being in talks with the council about deploying a sizable SOG team to the southern border, that made a world of difference. If it was at all true, then the tables were beginning to turn against Glynda. And once again, then there were these 'Commandos'.

The worst Hunters of the Privet sector had to be Keystone's. They were notorious crooks. The disgraced and outcasted. Academy dropouts and expulsions, Keystone scooped them up like candies. Heartless thugs, willing to do whatever it was in search of a paycheck, they would take the dirties deals, and do the most scummy missions. Keystone wasn't like Frostbite or F.A.S.T, they didn't often deploy large numbers of support personnel, what they did instead was send their 'Commandos' out with a tricked out Hammerhead that acted as a mobile base of operations for the four-man team. What they did, and how the accomplished their missions was up to them and their shadowy underworld contacts. The Corporation was willing to cut its losses and sever ties with any Commando teams that botched their mission to such a degree that it would be better for the company to cancel their contracts on the spot and withdraw support, leaving the Hunters stranded. On more than one occasion, this lead to some serious incidents where a blacklisted Keystone Commando team decided to cause all sorts of mayhem in the kingdom that had the misfortune of buying their services.

On the other hand, few other Companies got the results that Keystone did, and for such low prices…

Glynda reached for her flask, only to remember that it was on the other side of her office. Her head slumped and banged against the surface of her desk. She let herself lie like that for a few minutes. And after those minutes, she gave herself a couple more, and then more, and then even more. When she woke up, it would already be the morrow, and the reports of the storm, of the meteors, and of the faces in the clouds that eclipsed the shattered moon of remnant would be waiting for her, straight from the council.

…

Hastis opens his eyes, only to shut them again and groan aloud. The uncomfortable metal bench he's laying on slams back against his head as he tries to block out the light.

"So, you're breathing." An amused voice speaks to him. "That's an improvement."

It took several seconds to organize his thoughts. His head was clouded with a thick cloying fog. He tried to raise his head only for someone to shove him back down.

"No, stop that."

Hastis tried to bark out an insult, he tried to say anything, but with his tongue feeling like chewing-gum the best he could manage was to drool all over himself and gurgle like an idiot child.

"Throne, look at you," A soft cloth dabbed at his chin, mopping up his drivel. "Can hardly believe that you'd be an inquisitorial agent the way you are now. But, I suppose you have the merits to prove it." He clung to the words spoken to him as a lifeline pulling him back into reality, dragging him out of the swirling fog occluding his conscious. Grunting in reply, he tried opening his eyes again. The light was far less harsh now, and blurry shapes began to swim into focus.

He was on his back, lying on a cot in a medical APC, a Samaritan, a casualty-carriage or meat-wagon as some guardsmen would say. The APC rumbled to a halt, his body jerking numbly with every bump in the terrain, and there was a sister hospitaler of all things glowering down at him. Throne- this brought back memories…

The left half of her face a mess of augmetic lenses, her remaining half still flesh but significantly scarred. She was dressed in the armor of her order, power armor of a lighter mark, made for stability and dexterity, rather than raw protection and power.

"Are you of your senses, now?" The Sister asked, her voice was dry and clipped. She sounded like a noblewoman. "Blink for how many." She ordered, holding up two fingers, then five, before going down to three while moving her hand about his field of vision. He blinked in accordance, tracking her hand, "Good enough." She said, taking a second to pry open one of his eyes and leer closely. "You should be relatively safe to move around. Not at all comfortable, but," She grins, no humor in her expression at all, just regret and despondence. "I'm sure you can handle a bit of pain, now, can you?"

Hastis smacked his lips trying to sound a word or two out through his numbed gums. In the end he could only splutter a reply that sounded like nonsense before he stumbled his way out of the back of the machine.

He was in the middle of an Imperial guard assault, against the main bastion of defense- the shielded city. It was only just this morning when he had seen it from the mountain passes that are now choked with the dead. He looked about- the surroundings coated in mud and blood. Defensive positions that were formerly the enemies own, earthenwork trenches and sunken artillery positions, the ground was shaking from repeated reports of artillery fire.

In the distance, but far closer now, the void shield rippled with repeated impacts of artillery fire en-masse. His head was still foggy, and his body still ached, but Hastis took his time in searching the area around him. He was in a medical triage camp, set up by the advancing forces of the Imperial guard who had bought this current former obstacle with the lives of Legionaries.

Over a dead field he can just make out the Cathedral in the distance. Built onto the side of a mountain, the great city of Valtavyn was a work of centuries for its people in times past. Constantly being added onto and slowly expanding outwards in every direction. From where Hastis stood, looking up at the city, he could see the grand spires of stone and metal spiraling upwards against the backdrop of the ash-stained sky. He could make out the thin blue haze of the cities void-shield, every other second a ripple of energy would cascade around the impact of an artillery bombardment.

The conquest ahead was going to be a grueling task…

It took Hastis a few seconds to place himself. He was surrounded by prefab pillboxes and entrenched positions. They weren't any pristine things, they were smashed and broken. Ferrocrete shells blasted open to expose the innards. Currently, he was in some sort of triage station, a forward battlefield hospital. The Samaritan was there, along with several others, parked behind the ruins of several pillboxes for cover with several slanted inch-thick plasteel roof set up to act as makeshift shelters against light mortar fire and airburst munitions.

There were several guardsmen- actual guardsmen, not penal legionaries- currently being treated in the remains of bunkers by either medicae servitors and corpsmen. It took him a minute to realize that while he was out, the shock regiment had advanced up and taken the second defensive line. Judging by the damage to the bunkers and the amount of craters, it would be more accurate to say that it wasn't taken, so much as it was smashed in half. Several eyes were on him.

Wounded guardsmen were being treated, Hastis counted around several dozen, laid out in rows according to which ones will make it and which ones cant be helped. Off to the side, there was a pile of bloody black bags for the ones who were already dead. Hastis caught one of the medicae's by the arm.

"Hey, where can I find the inquisitor?" He said, wiping his mouth, he hoped he wasn't drooling- that would be the last thing he needed right now. The trooper looked Hastis up and down, deciding that despite his disheveled appearance , his dirty armor and patched up features, that it would be best to play it safe when dealing with possible inquisitorial adjutant.

"He's in the command bunker, m'lord. Meetin' with the colonel."

Hastis nodded and grunted, "Okay, and where's that then?"

The trooper gestured behind him, deeper into the trenches. "Right at the center, M'lord, jus follow the signs."

"Right then, my thanks. Carry on." Hastis says, trudging into the trenches, leaving the trooper.

The trenches were deep here, high-walls wide enough for three or four men to stand abreast each other. They were in markedly better condition than the ones that he, Hyork, and Lagorn had stormed with the penals, and although there were clear signs of combat, the network was surprisingly in still operable condition. It smelled of Astartes work and he spat at the though of it.

Guardsmen in heavy flakk armor colored tan, brown and dusky dust-yellow were everywhere. Running back and forth through the trenches, they were carrying heavy ordinance supplies or carting static weapons emplacements to what he could only guess to be the front lines. What the front lines looked like right now, he didn't know, but it must've been some form of positive- because he wasn't hearing any return shots from enemy artillery, only the raucous report of imperial earthsakers.

He was tempted to pull one of the soldiers aside again, and ask them what the situation was at this moment but he held back from doing so, he'd find out soon enough from Hyork himself, and likely the man who Hyork was speaking too would be more than willing to elucidate him.

The mud sucked at his boots, more blood than anything wholesome. Already several guardsmen were running through the trench complex, readjusting ruined fortifications and laying down duckboard. Several spared him a few quick glances before moving on, there was no time for laxity. This was still an active warzone. It took him several minutes of walking, trudging through muck, mud, and guts to reach it, but found it before too long.

Hastis cracked open the door to the bunker- the acrid stench of soot, promethium, and smoke wafted out to meet him instead. His nose curled but he stepped inside and walked down. The place was soot stained and scorch marks covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, evidence of prodigious flamer usage, or some sort of purification rite.

Hastis found Lagorn with Hyork; they were standing outside of a command bunker once used by the Heretic echelons previously in control of this trench network.

Ecclesiarchal servitors were scraping away at the walls of the permacrete structure buried in the ground, numbly muttering eulogies and hymns, sanctifying the place before it was made use of. Hastis could smell the saccharine smell of flamer exhaust wafting up from within the complex, its walls doubtlessly purified by fire before being scraped clean.

"Ah, Hastis." Hyork said, noticing him now. "Good to see you moving. Damage must've looked worse than it actually was, I see."

Hastis grunted, looking at the third man among them. "This is…" He asked.

"Colonel Diego Vestalt, commander of the Calibrian 76th Linebreakers." The man introduced himself. His features were long and stoic, his greying hair combed back over his scalp. He had the unusual complexion of dark yet pale skin that marked him out as a tanker from a desert world. Born under a punishing star but destined to die within a steel coffin. "A pleasure to be of service to the most holy Ordos."

"The pleasure is all mine, Colonel." Hyrok nodded. "To fill you in, Hastis, we're seconding ourselves to this regiment for the remainder of the campaign."

"Sir?" Hastis raised an eyebrow at the obvious complications that brought up. Lagorn caught his eye and subtly shook his head. Hastis closed his mouth, despite the protests in his mind. "As you say, sir."

"Damn shame about the Preceptor though, a fine warrior, may she rest in His light." Lagorn made the sign of the Aquilla over his chest.

"Sorry if this is all a bit sudden for you, Colonel. But with there only being me and my two adjutants, I'm afraid I don't have the capability to really operate in the usual manner expected of those of my station. And I wouldn't dare take from the Astartes at the moment, they are needed on the battlefield to do as they will."

"It is of no concern, Inquisitor, my command staff has already been notified. We shall do as you order."

"Of those orders, you also need not worry so much. I'm here on the grounds of rooting out any potential spiritual corruption that my try to worm its way through your ranks. While I have full confidence in your commissars I have found that a more personal and, 'nuanced' approach yields better results."

Hastis decided to let them talk, he waved Lagorn over, the vox operator complying reticently. "What is it?" He asked.

"What's going on?" He said. "Why's Hyork doing this?" He snapped quietly under his breath. "Nothing good will come of this later. Don't think that I won't testify."

"You think testifying will do you any good?"

"A painless death at the very least. I know better than to hope we get through this alive."

"I know, but he's got a solid reasoning to do this."

"And what might that be?"

"He reckons if we put in some good work before they catch up to us, we may have actual chance at a second tribunal."

"You serious?"

"It's better than doing nothing, sir."

Hastis found himself back with Hyork and Lagorn, forced together uncomfortably close inside a command bunker, a table had been set up in the center of the permacrete fortification alight with the screen glow of cogitators and the muttering of Servitors. A map was displayed on the table, tiny markers and flags depicting the flow of the battle. Aside from Hyork, Lagorn, and Hastis, there was also the Colonel and his counterparts: the commanders of the first, second, third, fourth and fifth companies of the 76th. Of those five, only three would be directly participating in the assault.

The colonel began the proceedings. "There will be nothing fancy about the assault. I won't sugar it. It's going to be a rough one. The moment we begin the bastards will be hammering us. They've already cottoned onto our push and have been launching cluster mines along the way. The stormshards have taken care of most of them but there's nothing we can do about their guns until we're under that shield."

"Any chance on bringing it down through bombardment?"

"Negative. It's a damn fine piece of archeotech, that shield. Coggers say it can hold up against orbital bombardment. Last time anyone tried to take one of these down with artillery, it took them months to even get a flicker. And it only lasted for five minutes. Next flicker took just as long before they started making any real progress. We don't have that kind of time."

"So, we'll have to dismantle it from the inside?"

"The Coggers will be up in arms if we hurt their shield. Besides, it originates from the Cathedral, that's where the emitter is. Afraid we'll be without artillery support most of the way. The Astartes will be breaching before us in order to locate and suppress as many gun batteries as possible. Once we get our pieces in under the shield we can begin close-in counter battery operations. Until that point, we'll be relying on the marines."

"Here's hoping they actually do their damned job this time…"

"Ah, I heard about what happened to the Penal Legionaries. They assured me that it will not happen again."

"Feh."

"First and command company will lead the charge. Iron Judicator will take center, Ironclad and Challenger will form the spear-tip, Reaper and Stormlance will wedge behind them, Tycarion and Voltair will advance behind Judicator. Forming the shaft will be second company in combat spread. First and Second platoon will break left, third and fourth will break right, the Fifth platoon with be charged with forming a fighting line, third company will advance to reinforce their positions alongside the fourth and fifth in short order. Once this is complete, we'll begin the advance into the city. Tycarion will advance along the east, and the west will go to Voltair. Iron Judicator will advance behind the Second-Company towards the cathedral alongside our armored units. We'll be the main thrust."

"What are we expecting in terms of enemy opposition?"

"Expect to be constantly under fire. They've had plenty of time to fortify this city. Traps, mines, deadfalls, and kill-boxes. A bunker around every corner."

"Sounds dangerous for our armored units."

"It's why the Second is charged with leading the main push."

"Wouldn't the First be better off with that?"

"The First has to secure the flanks, they'll be split up to do it."

"Don't advance behind the armor, we can't afford to have an assault caught up because one of our babies got slagged and is holding up the advance."

"Enemy armor?"

"Unknown, assume yes."

"Is there any further support we can expect?"

"Once we begin counter battery operations they will regroup with the Tycarion and Voltair in order to assist with their pushes."

The second company commander spoke up, looking at Hyork "What support can we expect from the Holy Ordos?"

The inquisitor shook his head. "There is not much I can do. I may be an inquisitor but the needs of the greater campaign come first."

Deov cut in. "It is of no concern. With the support of the Astartes personnel who will accompany us we will be victorious. We merely need faith. Trust in the Machine, and trust in the Emperor."

"Regardless of that, it still remains that it will be the Second and Grenadiers that will be taking the brunt of the assault."

The third company commander spoke this time. "Is that wise?" He asked. "We'll be sure to draw a good deal of fire. Are you certain that the tanks should hold back? They can take a great deal more punishment than the infantry can."

"It's too much of a risk. The streets are narrow. If a lead tank gets holed, it'll hold up every tank behind it. Only after the infantry clear the way of any possible Anti-Tank units will our armor be able to move up and secure the line."

"If our tanks aren't moving, then their sitting ducks for the enemies big-guns…" He muttered. "Did you take that issue up with the Astartes?"

"I told them as much. They told me to 'Handle It.'"

Hastis growled, "Upstart bastards. Bet it's easy for them to say that when you're wearing a bloody meter of armor on your ass." Hyork gave him a withering glare that told him to be silent; Hastis ignored it as he always did.

"Point of order, sir, but what can we expect in terms of air assets?"

"Absolutely nothing. The Imperial Aeronautica has wiped their hands of this, as have the Navy. It's up to us on the ground."

"The enemy has Triple-A that damned effective?"

"No, we simply lack the availability of any strike-craft. They have been requisitioned to other crusading elements." Deov said.

"What about the enemy?"

"The enemy has only shown the propensity to field primitive wooden flying machines using oil-based prop-engines. These machines fly low and slowly with ineffectual maneuverability. A simple laspistol is more than enough to swat them out of the sky. Hydras wont even deign to waste ammunition on these things."

"Enemy armor?"

"This is where things become complicated. The primary point of impasse over the battle for this planet is exactly that. The opposition has shown a remarkable propensity towards armored production. Though primitive and inferior to our own, the enemy has the capability to field tracked weapons platforms in large numbers, and more importantly…" The Colonel looks to Hyork for this, pointedly eyeing him, as if asking for permission to speak of something ill and forbidden.

Hyork clears his throat and steps forwards. "This is where my field of expertise comes in. You see, the forces of the Arch-enemy make up for their lack of resources and manpower through the use of Psykers. The machines they build, their 'Tanks,' are in fact pseudo-living constructs, much like a servitor in fact. They use the foul powers of their heretic Psykers to imbue malicious will's into their vehicles. This talk of 'Daemons' and 'Monsters' is all hear-say, and a proper application of staunch faith in the Emperor and sufficient firepower is more than enough to banish these 'ghosts'." The bunker is quiet for a moment. Hyork looked around the room with a steady gaze. "That, is of course, what you will be having your commissars tell the men under your command. What I am about to say to you, is the actual truth."

"They are called Daemon-Engines. They are malicious machines of metal and muscle. They are powered directly through the invocation of the warp to possess inert machines and transform them into abominations. Through despicable power, these possessed machines are capable of far-outstripping imperial armor in terms of resilience, maneuverability, and firepower. As for how to banish them, faith is indeed a shield against their otherwise corruptive influences." "Can they be killed?"

"They can. Enough heavy firepower can disable them, hit them enough times to crack them open and then douse them in promethium. I would have your chief Enginseer and Ministorum priest bless all your soldiers and vehicles before you begin this assault. Faith and conviction, as well as a strong and focussed mind, is all the shield you will have against being corrupted by these monstrosities."

"Sacred Throne."

"Indeed, commander." Hyrok nodded. "The best you can do is to turn your fear into hate and disgust. Channel your emotions as you would aim a rifle or draw a sword. Control the sway of your heart, and they will have no power over you."

"Your warnings are appreciated inquisitor, this will aid us greatly."

"Furthermore, let it be known that this knowledge is strictly forbidden. If you are found to be dispersing the more sensitive information that you now know, I assure you, retribution will be exacted, and punishment will be harsh. Ignorance is among our chief weapons against the Warp."

"We understand completely, inquisitor. Our lips are sealed."  
It was later, outside the repurposed command bunker that Hastis confronted Hyork about what had been said in the meeting previous. The talk of the Warp, and of malign engines of dark powers had unnerved him. He turned to the old inquisitor, and said his grievances.

"So, what is it that you know? What is it that you didn't tell them?"

Hyork sighed. "The four dark powers of the warp are at work here, The Changer, and the Skull Lord primarily, but we have seen elements of cults favored by the Hermaphrodite Queen and the Plaguefather." Hyork shakes his head. "The only time the dread four have cooperated before was during times of great crises. The Horus Heresy, the Black Crusades, and The Shattering, but why here? This is by all accounts a minor skirmish in comparison to the larger crusade at hand."

"You think this is a trap?"

"It has to be, it could not be anything but that. Yet, we have seen no true Daemons, we've merely seen those half-hearted attempts at Daemon-Engines, minor possessions, lesser chaos spawn, and one or two Daemonhosts who showed no attributes of The Four."

"I'll admit, it's strange." Hastis snorts. "Doesn't change anything, though. Still have to grind them to dust, one way or the other."

"Agreed, but it bodes poorly for the Calibrians. Whatever the foe has planned, they will take the brunt of it."

"They're Guardsmen. It always comes down to them getting shafted by the higher ups. It's how it is, it's how it'll always be."  
"Quite the Cynic, you are."

"Thanks to you, sir."

"Come off it, already."

…

He had walked the warp long before this world had come to know the virtues of Chaos. He had seen the Shattering, and before even that he had seen the battlefields of the Great Heresy. He was old, ancient- and with age came power. Clad in armor so dark and blue that it could be mistaken for black, he stood in a place of worship- but he was far from sanctified. His very presence seemed to cast a new light upon the marble faces of saints and angels that stared down from their carved stone perches- from dutiful repose into trembling silence.

He had many names, but none of them were true, he stood alone- for the moment. A Chaos sorcerer, a survivor, a consummate practitioner of warp-born magicks. His legion was dead and scattered, and any brothers he had once kept were dust and ash. Yet, he fought on. The great chapel of this world- a lynchpin of the battlefield and Ley-line in the warp. Staring up at it now from the base of its steps made him feel small when he would oft feel indomitable.

This is where it would happen. Had to be, now way it could not.

He sensed the others before they approached. He payed them no heed, and instead waited for them to speak.

**"It is the Guard, my lord. They have overrun the outer defenses."** The voice was grating and rough, disguising clear malice.

The sorcerer nodded. **"How long 'till they assault the shield." **

**"Just under an hour at the most, my lord."**

**"Are the chattel prepared?"**

**"They man the defenses, my lord. As for their usefulness…" **

**"Your faith in them is that poor?"**

**"The enemy is a heavily armored regiment, with apparent superheavy capabilities. It is doubtful that our defenses will hold long under a sustained assault."**

He nodded again, thinking.** "They mean to crack the wall and hold the breach with their tanks. Then they will move their infantry through and only then will they bring their armor up thereafter. They would be fools to send their tanks directly into an urban confrontation without infantry to screen their advance."**

**"Your orders, my lord?"**

The sorcerer sighed. **"They will be 'neath the shield when the time comes. We must therefore **  
**improvise. Reinforce the second and tertiary interior defenses. Let them take the walls."**

The voice snorted. The clank of metal on metal, a blade being drawn from a sheath. **"Will there be anything else, my lord?"**

"**Yes**," He nods again. **"Inform the Dead-Oath."** He turns now, staring at the sky- blackening with the coming night, the smoke obscures the moons and the stars. Only the blue glow of the void shield to provide any ambient light once the sun falls behind the mountains. "**They have loyalists to hunt."  
**

Hastis' hand clamped hard on the railing, head bent he said his prayers as the world outside was split asunder by the bombardment of hundreds of heavy guns all shouting at once. He grits his teeth, sweat drips from his head. The interior of the Crassus is cramped with flak-vested bodies all crammed together standing upright. The dim red light paints everything in as a maroon charnel-pit in the making. Every-other second the titanic troop transport is rocked by a deafening impact or series of thuds that denote the blistering anti-tank fire that is bracketing their transport. The engine growls, the tracks grind on, the unseen hellstorm outside is projected into the vehicle interior through the thick plasteel and ceramite hull.

The Crassus bucks, lurching upwards and throwing itself up some sort of incline. Hastis sucks in a lungful of recycled air and shuts his eyes as not a moment later the concussion of an explosion washes over the massive troop transport and shakes the men huddled inside. Impacts start perforating the Crassus left and right in escalating waves of weapons fire, a hailstorm of high-explosive shells ripple over the reinforced armored hold. Hastis ducks his head down, tucking his chin against his flak-vest he fervently prays, trying to take his mind off the impacts.

He wasn't used to this- not at all. His old regiment rarely used massed infantry carriers, instead relying on fast moving, small hit and run vehicles, the Salamander and Tauros respectively. Being stuck inside the slow moving Crassus was hell for Hastis, the knowledge that it would only take a single lucky shot to rip through a break in the hull to kill them all was fraying his nerves. Sweat was stinging his eyes, he looked to Lagorn, the Vox specialist was pale, clutching he seat with white knuckled intensity.

The Crassus rocked, this time being hit hard enough by something to knock it off course, the massive land-crawler swerved hard to the left, the engine growled heartily, as if accepting the challenge. Through it all, the Guardsmen in the transport bay were fidgeting, not out of nerves, no, but instead impatience. With that, Hastis could not help but notice a repeating sound echoing from within the troop-hold.

There was a continuous thumping, sounding inside the hull, louder and louder, Hastis looked up, trying to spy the cause in the ruddy red light of the troop compartment, he thought it might be a breach in the interior, some loose panel or bent plate. He couldn't find anything- a buzzing a low pitched groan started up. He looked to see what the guardsmen were making of the racket- if they even cared at all- the jaded Grenadiers of the regiment.

The sound was coming from them.

The guardsmen stomped their boots in time, humming low in pitch and tone. Hastis listened, as the lieutenant at the front stood, gripping a ceiling handrail.

"Calibrians," He shouted over the sound of hundreds of guns and countless rockets ripping into the armored hull of the mighty Crassus, twice he was nearly knocked off his feet by a particularly vicious explosion. "Grenadiers!" He shouted again, the humming picked up, the grenadiers stomped harder.

"Can you feel that?"  
**_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._**  
"Can you feel His eyes on you?!"  
**_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._**  
"Grenadiers!"  
**_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._**  
"Seventy five times, guardsmen."  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_**  
"Seventy five times before has He watched our glory."  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_**  
"Tell me now, Grenadiers. What glory are we?"  
The guardsmen, shoulder to shoulder the take up their weapons, they stomp their boots thrice more and now they shout, chanting in unison:  
_"Seventy Six. Seventy Six."_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_**  
"He calls for us! He calls for warriors!"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Born unto duty! Born unto War! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"_  
_**Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,**_  
"Shout it you bastards! Tell me your pain!"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Boots in the mud! Blood on our lips! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, _**  
"What is our purpose! What is our cause?!"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"We are His hammer! We shatter their skulls! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, _**  
"Of the poor sqeks who face us!? What of their walls and their guns?!"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"No foe too many! All fortresses fall! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, _**  
"Our time is now! Tell me your oath! Shout it!"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Drive home the spear! The Throneworld calls! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_**  
"What blood burns in our veins?" The Lieutenant roars.  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Calibrian! Calibrian!"_  
"By who's blood will this planet be cleansed?"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Calibrian! Calibrian!"_  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_**  
"Who's glory will be writ this day?"  
**_Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,_ **  
_"Calibrian! Calibrian!"_

The Crassus surge forwards, one last push up and over a trench or embankment before its nose comes crashing back down and the tracks whine and groan as the engine pushes them to dig into the mud and haul the massive troop carrier forwards. He could feel it, this was it, Hastis grabs Hyork by the arm and yanks him out of his seat, Lagorn rising too.

"Soldiers of Calibra!" The guardsmen are chuffing at the bit, punching each other on the shoulder, cracking helmets together, the low chanting having now become a continuous roar of 'Calibrian!' The lieutenant draws his saber the electric blue glow of the crackling energy field harsh in contrast to the red light of the cabin.

The lieutenant shouts, "Grenadiers! Make ready! Mark~! Mark~!"

Hastis Hisses to Hyork. "This is it, this is it-" He snarls. "Lagorn," He snaps to the Vox specialist. "Don't lose sight of me,"

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." The guardsman nods, he pulls his helmet tighter, a patchwork job on his helmets strap keeping it on his head but not centered.

The Crassus lurches once again, pivoting part way before grinding to a halt, the guardsmen rock back and hold tight to the rails overhead. The lieutenant shouts one last time; "Remember your spacing! Get ready!"

The ramp drops, dirty light floods into the cabin, a wave of sound see's fit to crush Hastis back against the hull. The Grenadiers roar, boots stampede- smashing down the ramp, the hazy red glow replaced by hellfire and ash that sweeps into the troop hold. High-pitched shrieks and concussive, deafening thuds, the scream of lasguns and massed autogun fire with the rat-tat-tat-tat chatter of heavy stubbers.

"Hold tight to the Crassus, keep low!" Hastis shouts over the noise, he forces himself towards that portal of light and the promise of a grungy, trench filled hell. Jumping down the ramp into a mud slick battleground, Hyork is behind him, Lagorn sticking close. The outside world is awash in smoke and soot, Hastis lands in mud almost up past his ankles, he struggles for footing.

He's standing at an angle, the terrain sloping up to the curtain walls of the city. Trenches and bunkers are carved into the slope like handholds on a mountain, in each trench and bunker are hundreds of turncoat Valtavyn militia and cultists using antiquated or stolen weapons- and each one of them is hungry for Imperial blood.

It takes a second for Hastis to orient himself, he calls back to the briefing, the plan was an armored hammer-blow backed up by mechanized infantry. A singular crushing assault, blunt and to the point. The tanks would push up with the grenadiers, and smash the defenses while the astartes take out any artillery camps within the city. The push centered on the main entrance, and despite its heavy defenses, the age and relatively primitive construction of the city was in favor of the imperials. The curtain walls of the city were crumbling- coming apart piece by piece.

The 76th's Demolisher siege tanks were relentless in their advance, pausing only to fire their cannons and bombard the ancient curtain walls and blast apart reinforced gatehouses. Even so, the wallguns do not cease their retribution; primitive gunpowder variant blast cannons launching large, explosive ordinances down at the attacking 76th. In the trenches, crudely dug things- cowled and hooded cultist fling grenades and fire heavy weapons at the approaching grenadiers. Lasbeams burn the air, bolter rounds leave smoking contrails in their wake, vicious storms of lead and burning gouts of promethium are the order of the day.

Punching through this confluence, the wide armored tracks of the Crassus that played host to Hastis grind into motion as the assault transport lurches forward, the autocannon and heavy stubber mounts are blistering away- the barrels glowing cherry red as smoke-launchers eject canisters that burst mid-air to provide concealment for the guardsmen elites.

An eviscerating Lascannon beam scours just over Hastis, scarring the hull of the mighty Crassus, digging deep but failing to break through the first few layers of heat-dispersive Ceramite armor. In rapid reaction one of the stubber mounts turns and returns fire with a stream of tracer rounds- in concert one of the forward leman russes reengages- an exterminator variant- it's twin-autocannon turret traverses around to engage and suppresses the weapons team.

The spearhead attack storms towards the gate, riding on inertia and momentum to carry the assault before heavy ordinance can dial in the sector and smash the attacking force with overwhelming artillery fire before imperial counter-battery fire can be brought up under the shield to lay the hurt back on the Valtavyian traitor guns. The lack of howling shells raining down from above are not proof enough for Hastis to believe that the Astartes strike teams sent ahead had succeeded. He would only trust the honest guns of the imperial guard, not some stimm-addled bolter-monkey.

The Calibrian infantry was pressing hard, true to their title as 'Linebreakers' they threw themselves at the Valtavyn defensive networks with gusto. The Grenadiers, in keeping with their namesake occupation, chucked smoke canisters as the weapons specialists hefted their bulky grenade launchers and fired from the hip in a low crouch, the 'Thud, Thud, Thud' of explosive munitions set the stage for their squad-mates to charge.

Vaulting over pieces of broken masonry they shouldered their rifles and held down the trigger, storming uphill at the conflagration of the enemies trenches, suppressing the blazing fire-slits of hostile bunkers. Hastis kept his head down, not ready to just throw himself into such a hailstorm of laser and shot, and for good reason. A light stubber stitched a line across the advancing formation of guardsmen, he watched as the heavy double layered carapace plates that the Calibrian Grenadiers wore across their front caught the rounds and the impact threw several to the ground, one was not so lucky, the bullet rebounding off the plate, deflecting up and through his jaw- the top of his helmet erupted like a volcano with wet red chunks of brain and skull.

One of the grenadiers made it to the foot of a fortified ferrocrete bunker, ripping a red-taped canister from his belt he pulled the pin and waited several seconds before tossing it through a break in the firing slit that repeated impacts of krak grenades had made. Flames rippled out of the stubber ports a moment later as the incendiary let loose inside the close confines of the bunker with an eruption of volatile compressed promethium, and the grenadier cackled as he watched. With the bunker silenced the rest of the infantry advanced against the withering fire of trenches, the strongpoint silenced by the forward shock and awe tactics of the grenadiers.

This was like nothing Hastis or Lagorn, and Hyrok especially, were used to. Gritting his teeth, Hastis rips free his revolver and urges himself forwards, slogging through the mud, upwards towards the trenches.

"C'mon, we're moving!" Hastis shouted. Pulling at Hyork, the three moved forwards in a low crouch- bullets still snapped overhead, and mortar shells fell in infrequent volleys. Hastis kept his breathing steady, ignoring the continuous raking fire of heavy stubbers overhead, ignoring the constant sparking of solid shot and laser off the hull of the Crassus just to his right, how ricocheting bullets pepper his side with their fragmenting jackets. Part of him wants to lie flat in the mud and wait for it to be over, but his iron will keeps him from doing just that.

"This is insanity!" Hyork shouted, cracks in his confidence breaking. It's enough to get a grin out of Hastis, "We'll be blown to pieces before we can even reach the city!"

"This is war, Inquisitor!" Hastis shouted back, the ruddy red mud sucking at his boots as they advanced up the embankment towards the curtain walls of the city. "You wont find any pretty papers and dinner parties here!"

The grenadiers slam into the first line of trenches under a withering white blanket of smoke. They impact upon the prepared defensive positions like a tank rolling over a speed-bump. They poured into the closed in confines of the trench-network, where the close quarters combat was swift, brutal, and one sided. The strong layered carapace armor the elite Calibrian Grenadiers was crude, bulky, and heavy, but the small arms fire of the Valtavyn traitor militia sparked and spanged off of it like rocks would against a fortress.

In return the Grenadiers let loose with long scything bursts of full auto lasfire, the traitors came apart, their clothes burning away and their bodies exploding as the intense heat of concentrated lasfire boiled the water in their cells and turned it to steam. As the men swarmed into the trenches, the behemoth Crassus followed close behind, collapsing the defensive network on either side of it with consecutive blasts from its heavy autocannons and sweltering bursts of fiery promethium whenever a hardpoint on its flank that the Grenadiers could not crack revealed itself.

Hastis kept just behind the massive armored transport as the Grenadiers made savage work. Despite the cover it provided it was a lucrative target for the wall mounted cannons, the damned things were mostly antiquated, primitive gunpowder designs but several mounted lascannons in the mix kept things interesting. It was the work of the demolishers to break those emplaced weapons teams, their turrets elevated fully, the siege tanks lobbed demolisher rounds capable of flattening a reinforced bunker at the top levels of the cities curtain walls.

Then, there was the Iron Judicator, the command tank of the Colonel. In fairness, to call it a tank was a disservice. The regimental commander rode to battle upon a Baneblade Superheavy. In its possession were no less than eleven-barrels of hell, twelve, if you counted the turret mounted pintle-stubber. The Baneblade was an unmistakeable icon of imperial might, a metal monstrosity coated in high-grade plasteel, armored ceramite, and reinforced with molecularly bonded adamantium plating over vital-points.

Nothing short of an enemy Titan, superheavy, or a determined heavy anti-tank unit was capable of matching such a steel behemoth. Most anti armor weapons would only spall its armor and anything less was nothing more than a summer rain against its unyielding hide. The main weapon- the fearsome Baneblade Battle Cannon- launched 250mml rocket-assisted shells that no armor was match against, its secondary cannon was a demolisher, what was normally mounted on specialized Leman Russ tanks was nothing more than a secondary weapon for such a monstrous vehicle, and its tertiary defensive weapons could cut platoons to ribbons.

It was said that such machines were being phased out of service in favor of the more reliable and agile Macharius-class of tanks, second generation Baneblades they were being called. It was said that Baneblades were too large a target, that they were too slow. That fielding such a vehicle was just asking to be hemmed in and pounded into dust by enemy artillery or air support. It was said that on a modern battlefield, speed and maneuverability were more important than heavy-armor.

Hastis still remembered very clearly one such commander. After the commander had voiced such an opinion, the regimental commissar had the man whipped. His reason being that, _'the man was clearly a tau sympathizer.'_

Hastis was a guardsman before anything, and any guardsman hated commissars. But even Hastis could not find any flaw in the commissars statement, if anything, there was a grudging admiration.

Iron Judicator was even now just beginning its ascent up the embankment towards the main gates of the city, its growling engine echoed over the battlefield as a low hungry purr. It was slow, ponderous, and utterly menacing. Armor-piercing fire ripples over the upper glacis of Iron Judicator, finding home along the other ancient wounds that such a beast carried over its storied life of service. These were nothing more than mild irritations to the massive metal beast. The superheavy tank was not unsupported.

Only an idiot would send such a massive machine up the frontline without further reinforcement. Guardsmen from the second and third companies advanced in their droves, sticking close to the command tank, unleashing a near constant swath of red at the enemy. Leman Russ main battle tanks let loose with their cannons, and even Hydra Flak tanks came up behind the Baneblade, and, at either side of the massive war-machine, a pair of Hellhound flame tanks let loose, coating entire swaths of the battle-line in scouring fire.

For a moment, Hastis ignores the war around him to watch the main gun of Iron Judicator turn, and elevate. Its barrel rises, and the pintle autocannon looses a quick burst of rounds, as if testing the waters, and then-

It fires.

The unmistakable sound of a Baneblade Super Battlecannon firing dominates the war for a single moment before the massive high-velocity rocket propelled shell slams home into the archway above the main gates of the city beyond, and the entire battlefield silenced by a singular overwhelming eruption as the once ornate iron gates over thirty feet in height are blown to pieces.

A massive, gaping hole stands where the ancient defenses of the city once stood. A mad grin splits across Hastis' face.

It was nowhere near done yet. Demolisher siege tanks hammered the walls around the broken entrance, widening the gap, keeping it suppressed from any possible reinforcements. Exterminator patterns elevated their guns and raked the weapon emplacements atop the wall in rapid fire bursts of explosive death, suppressing the crews, keeping them locked down as Infantry rallied around them, forming ad-hoc defensive emplacements and palisades against enemy fire with prefab fortifications. Already actions were being undertaken to close the breach against enemy counter-attack and possible artillery bombardment.

A commander shouted. "We're pushing the breach! We're advancing now!" Waving his saber above his head like a beacon or a flag, he signaled for the platoons to keep moving, to push hard and push fast, to gain as much ground before resistance elements could reconvene and repulse them.  
"Grenadiers, take to the front!"

The guardsmen Grenadiers let loose with their chants, their war cry's. The walls of the city were now suppressed, and the enemy was in a rout, falling back into the houses and streets behind the walls. With the Baneblade pushing up into the breach unopposed the Calibrians had succeeded in their assault. Only desultory weapons fire from the few remaining pockets of resistance remained outside the walls, the real resistance was past the breach and in the city beyond.

"Look at that, why don't you?" Hastis breathed, the armored bulk of Iron Judicator was pulling itself up and over the ruined remains of the gate. Its armored tracks crushing the masonry and metal beneath its weight. What it could not crush, it simply bulldozed out of the way. "Only ever saw those monsters at work from a distance."

"Used their cannons as ad-hoc artillery more than once back on Askada. Remember that?" Lagorn said.

"Yeah, never stopped raining on that shit-hole."

Hyork was quiet for a moment, eyeing the city beyond the walls- through the breached gate. He said nothing to Hastis or Lagorn, instead turning his attention to the flickering void-field that protected the city from orbital bombardment. For a singular second he was entranced by its shimmering blue glow and then the moment passed. He felt something like an Omen was cloying his mind.

He pushed the thoughts aside. Now was not the time for doubt. Not when they were so close. "That'll be enough," He said to Hastis and Lagorn, cutting their reminiscing short. The Grenadiers were already pouring into the now countless breaches that peppered the city walls. "We'd do well to join them."

…

The city inside the crumbling walls was a mix of feudal, primitive medieval buildings and more modern gothic imperial architecture. The further into the city one moved the newer the buildings became, while the outskirts played host to much of the older style stonework homes and taverns.

Narrow cobblestone streets, made for animal drawn wagon carts and wheelbarrows now had to withstand the armored weight of tracked imperial guard tanks. Keeping close to the buildings the grenadiers of the first company first platoon grenadiers advanced, keeping disciplined spacing, they set a murderous pace, keen on catching the retreating enemy before they could recover in secondary internal defenses.

Hyork, Hastis, and Lagorn brought up the rear of the platoon, with them were the platoons medics and heavy weapons, several grenadiers in pairs, carrying heavy stubbers, missile launchers, and even two light mortars. Behind them, it's hull scraping against the buildings and tearing walls apart, was Tycarion, the first platoons Crassus. Its heavy atuocannons and twin heavy stubbers were considered more than a match for any primitive enemy armor. Hyork hoped that would be the case. Any sufficient enemy position that was encountered was to be besieged by Tycarion, the Crassus acting as a front-line strongpoint for attacking enemy positions.

The Crassus was a mighty war machine, perfectly suited for moving heavy infantry across hostile terrain and capable of withstanding murderous retaliatory fire. Even Anti-Tank weaponry would find the task of destroying, or even disabling, a Crassus to be difficult. By itself, the Crassus was capable of defending itself with its array of weapons, and with the guardsmen it carried, it became far, far more dangerous of a prospective target. Inside the close confines of the city streets, hemmed in by buildings and narrow roads, its usefulness was diminished it was slow going for the Crassus as it bulled its way through the streets, partially crushing houses and leaving flattened debris in its wake.

The grenadiers were struggling to protect their transport, as big of a target as it is. Hastis ducked, as the point was only reinforced further- that armored vehicles were not suited to urban warfare- as a rocket corkscrewed through the air overhead, and detonated against the hull of the Crassus

_"Second story window!"_ The call came over the vox, "_Suppress_!"

Lasfire rippled up ahead, the entire face of a building burst into flames and molten rock as dozens of lasguns painted their beams across its second story. The building fell apart under the sustained volley, and then was destroyed outright as one grenadier stepped forwards and unloaded the underslung launcher of his lasrifle, a high-explosive grenade smacked against the building, the blast tore apart the wood and rock construction, flames gutted its interior, it fell apart, crumpling inwards, burying the weapons team under piles of burning rock. They've already encountered several such ambushes, and were paranoid for plenty more. The front of Tycarion was beginning to resemble a cratered moon's surface, but still, the mammoth war machine growled on.

"Any updates?" Hastis asked over the vox.

The Lieutenants voice came back, lasfire clear in the background both up ahead and over the vox. _"Second Company is ready to press their advance, third company is settling in. Fourth and Fifth Company are packing up shop and crossing no-mans right now."_

"How fares the Colonel?"

_"Oh, he's having a right good time. A couple of hostile vic's is all, nothing to worry about."_

"Glad to hear that, out." Hastis cut the connection, he nodded to Lagorn. "The second company is ready to advance, they're just waiting for us to test the waters. Get ready for some resistance."

"What will that look like?" Hyork asked.

"Not sure, could be anything. But, given the terrain, it'll be something that the big-bastard behind us will just roll over- literally- after the Grenadiers tenderize it."

"Didn't the Lieutenant say the Colonel is dealing with tanks?"

"Yeah."

"Remember what the reports said about the tanks these fiends use?" Hyrok darkly intoned. "The warp has influence here."

"And the Colonel has a Baneblade." Hastis snapped. "I've seen what the main gun on that thing can do to enemy superheavy's. And you've seen what it can do against soft targets." Hastis shakes his head. "There wasn't even bits left for us to burn."

Hyork looks at Hastis pointedly. "The enemy has more than a couple, Hastis."

"And a Baneblade has eleven guns."

"It isn't the Colonel and his precious tank that I am concerned for, it is us." Hyork snapped back.

_"Hardpoint ahead! Plaza, multiple weapons teams! Advance elements are pinned down!"_ The Crassus revved its engine, forcing its way forward through broken streets. _"Voltair movin' to assist! Keep the pressure on! Advance with her!"_ The Lieutenant called over the vox.

Hastis kept pace with the rear echelons of the platoon, the weapons specialist stormed up the street, the Plaza in question quickly became visible, its center piece being a grand fountain. Several grenadiers took cover inside it, laying below the lip of the fountain they held their lasguns up and fired blindly in the direction of the enemy. The enemy in question was concentrated on the opposite side of the plaza, the road was filled with makeshift barricades and iron tank-traps.

The entire street beyond was blocked off, buildings collapsed in such a manner to make passage impossible for all but the most dedicated of advancing forces. The buildings, houses, markets, and store-fronts, lining the circular plaza were filled with cultists, stubbers fired down from windows, accompanied by fusillades from autoguns, lasguns, and scatterguns.

It was a 180' degree encirclement, the plaza a perfect kill-box. A scything beam of red heat scorched through the air, Hastis felt as if his flesh was being cooked off of him as a lascannon speared overhead and cored into Voltair, the war machine's already pitted and abused front was further scarred by the blistering heat of the anti-tank weapon. The Crassus was designed to take such punishment, but not repeatedly, and certainly not from such a potent anti-tank weapon.

The transport was quick to react, lurching to a stop, the Crassus reversed, it's tracks digging into street, breaking apart the cobblestone and pulling the machine back into a semblance of cover before the lascannon could recharge and fire again. This was a dangerous game, and the Calibrians were clearly not going to risk their precious transport despite the protection it provided. The advance had met its hardpoint, it was time to call up the second wave.

The lieutenant barked out his orders, the grenadiers would hold, they wouldn't be pushed back so easily, by such a despicable foe. The guardsmen stormed into cover, hurtling through the windows of buildings, and shops, overturning market stands and popping hissing smoke grenades. They returned fire with vicious accuracy and blistering intensity, automatic lasbeams homed in on points of terminal resistance, suppressing and silencing heavy stubber nests and special attention was made to punish the lascannon team.

Shouts of pain, cut off screams, gouts of blood, from behind cover, Hastis watched as the precision fire and sheer volume of the Grenadiers counter volleys punished the enemy. Guardsman shouted, sergeants bellowing orders, directing squads onto individual targets. Behind him, back with Voltair, the Platoon's heavy weapons set up the Mortars, short ranged things made for just this sort of engagement, the Heavy stubbers moved up, the rocket teams dove for cover, fragmentation high explosive rockets were loaded, the Lieutenant ready to direct their targets.

_"Smoke and pressure! Put a frag through that window!"_ A squad lead shouted, the plaza was being torn up, bullets and lasers doing their dark work to turn this place into another bloody battleground. Hastis took cover behind a ruined wall, Hyork and Lagorn close behind him. Lagorn leaned out of cover, shouldering his rifle, he added his weight to the battle, Hastis was content to keep his head down in such a maelstrom, Hyork did so as well.

_"Mind your ears, sir's!"_ A grenadier rocketeer team was next to them, the grenadiers carrying with them a potent Missile Launcher of native pattern, The operator shouldered his weapon and flicked the sight down, his partner slapped his back and pulled the release on the warheads tail-end safety, priming the weapon. _"Clear back-blast!"_

"_Firing_!"

The specialist leaned out of cover, bullets tearing up the ground right next to him, smoke and fire flamed out the back of his launcher as he fired, the RPG shrieked through the air, crossing the plaza and obliterating an entire section of building in a fiery eruption, shrapnel and smoke billowed out from the impact, cutting through several cultists at once.

It wasn't anywhere near enough, it was clear that further cultists were streaming in from behind the enemies barricades, reinforcing the position, intent on holding the 76th back from any further advances.

A squad of Grenadiers tossed smoke, billowing up over the Plaza-it did nothing to lessen the weight of the enemies fire, but it gave the grenadiers caught int he center, using the fountain as cover a chance to pull back to a more defensible location.

Several vaulted over the rim- two took rounds in the back, staggering forwards but still moving, they made it only three steps before a shrieking contrail tore through the smoke and hit the ground at their feet- the rocket exploded, crudely made but still lethal, it ripped the guardsmen apart, gore spread out with the force of the blast, leaving a bloody red crater where they once were.

A curse over the vox, the lieutenant snapped out angrily, _"Volley fire that barricade! Keep them pinned and sqek that rocket team!"_

_"Do we have that lascannon team stuffed?"_

_"We have them, no chance on them moving!"_

_"Then get Voltair up here now! I want this plaza clear before the second company gets here!"_

Hastis winced at that, aggression was a good trait for any guardsmen, but over aggression was folly, it needed to be tempered by caution.

_"Tracks locked up! Something in the gears!"_ The call came back, what looked to be simple bad luck jamming the Crassus where it was, and likely blocking the advance of the second company when they pushed.

If the turn of bad luck bothered the lieutenant it didn't show, the man was clearly experienced and quick on his feet, his priorities shifting to protecting the Crassus, and getting it repaired as quickly as possible. _"Fakk it! We'll buy them some breathing space! Flamers! To the front! Burn them out! Keep them from getting any ideas and mind their stubbers! All squads, get ready to cover-_

A sound over the gunfire- a maddening call, Hastis had heard it time and again and again, the most recent instance being but hours prior in a blood filled trench. "Shite-" He cursed.

"Bastards don't know when to quit," Lagorn hissed, checking his powerpack.

"_Incoming!" _

Madmen vaulted over the barricades, the first couple were cut down, so were the next dozen but their bodies absorbed the lasbolts and let the third push through, firing wildly with automatic pistols they closed the distance across the Plaza in seconds- fueled by all manner of narcotics and heinous madness- Hastis watched a lasbolt boil away half of a mans face and yet he still kept charging.

The lieutenant roared his orders, not hesitating for a second.

_"Counter-charge! Counter-charge! Fakking pile-in! Cover the backline!"_

A squad of grenadiers vaulted out of cover- bullets whipping by them, and more than several rounds sparked off their carapace chest pieces and helmets. The assault specialists unloaded, firing from the hip, scything through the enemies charge and meeting it with one of their own in turn. This was a do-or-die moment and the grenadiers responded with brutal alacrity.

It was a single squad of seven men that met the charge of dozens and more- Hastis watched, aiming down the barrel of his revolver he punched a superheated lasbolt through a madman's torso and the two men behind him. He was certain that the grenadiers would be overwhelmed in seconds, and they were, but for a few precious seconds, they managed to stem the tide.

Seconds were all that the backlines needed.

_"Down! Down!"_

A grenadier shouted, Hastis looked back to see, a pair of weapons teams sprinting from the rear into the forefront- into the plaza. Their was no time for them to set up, so instead they improvised. One man fell to his knees and bent over, the man behind him dropped the heavy stubber across their back, and screamed.

"_Ready_!"

At once, the embattled grenadiers, swarmed by the horde of cultists, threw themselves to the ground, falling backwards- more than several traitors and heretics falling upon each of them but in the process, clearing the line of fire.

The stubbers opened up.

.50 caliber jacketed rounds tore into weak, exposed flesh, ripping holes in bodies, severing limbs, tearing human meat apart. There was no need for proper aiming, the gunners simply worked their weapons left and right, making sure to keep the barrels pointed straight ahead, over the heads of the grenadiers. In several careful sweeps, the entire heretic charge was broken.

It was a massacre. It was over in seconds.

The initiative was in the hands of the imperials, as one, the Grenadiers charged, reversing the momentum lost by the slaves of the dark powers. Panicked fire ripped out from the positions held by the cultists that hadn't thrown themselves into an all-or-nothing gambit. Their positions now bracketed down by lasfire, the grenadiers charged in.

_"Pressure! Pressure!"_ Storming out of their positions the grenadiers advanced, they crossed the plaza, several sliding to a stop next to the prone grenadiers who had been mad enough to break the horde of enemies that had poured into the plaza.

"_Inside! Clear the buildings!" _The lieutenant ordered, advancing with his troops. _"Rip into them, lads!"_

One of the grenadiers wasn't moving, the others of the seven got to their feet, worse for ware but adrenaline fueling them into action. "Corpsman!" Came the shout, always expected. The grenadier was dragged behind the fountain in the center of the plaza, even now suppressive fire ripped up the streets from holdout-cultists that were soon to be destroyed.

_"Secure! Building clear!"_ Similar calls echoed from squad to squad, Hastis began to relax- not fully, never fully, but the situation was under control. He nodded to Lagorn, with a weary grin. Things looked troubling for a moment there.

_"Voltair, status?"_ The Lt. voxed. Silence ruled the airwaves for a moment, _"She's mobile again, Second company is pressing behind you. Take center stage in the plaza and clear the road for the second._" He ordered. "_Platoon, status? Plaza cleared?"_

_"Clear, sir."_

_"All clear."_

_"Secured,"_

_"More dead heretics, sir."_

Hastis stood, surveying the wreckage, several grenadiers were wounded, and a few were dead. Fast, brutal, and close in. Urban warfare was all these things. It favored those who struck back at an enemies initiative with initiative of their own. The Lieutenant crackled to life over the Vox once more, having conferred with the Colonel clearly. _"Then press the advance, all squads, spread our and search ahead for-_

Sudden, and unexpected violence, another constant of urban warfare- asymmetrical tactics were key in a firefight, it was dangerous to get bogged down if no reinforcements were present or available. Outflanking maneuvers, constant readjustments against entrenched enemies. Sudden, skirmishing strikes must have clear fallback positions, and once victory was secured, it was key not to lose your guard.

Hastis watched as a trio of Grenadiers, exiting a ruined storefront evaporated- their upper halves simply disappearing as the concussive blast of a heavy bolter sounded throughout the plaza- dominating even the far off roar of artillery, and the screams of shrieking rockets. Hastis dove for cover. Honed instincts driving him to the ground alongside Lagorn and Hyork, who was one step ahead.

_"Enemy fire! Ambush!"_ The cry rang out over the vox- thunderous bolter fire followed- the meaty wet smacks of more guardsmen being pulped by an unseen enemy followed.

"C_over! Heavy bolter- heavy bolter-"_

_"Corpsman! Multiple casualties!" _

_"No shot- I can't see them!"_

"_Fakk_!"

Lagorn saw the first one before anybody else. Everyone was looking outwards, away from the Plaza, Lagorn, out of old habit, looked where nobody else did. Old instincts died hard. Erupting below the fountain, blasting through the concrete from the pipeline underneath, a massive, gauntleted hand scarred grey and silver, reached up and grabbed one of the grenadiers. With inexorable strength it pulled the guardsman through the concrete.

"Shite!" Lagorn swore heartedly. The other guardsmen turned to stare at the gaping Hole in the fountain- and something stared back.

They fired, point blank, fully automatic, impossible to miss.

It did nothing, the red beams of heat washed over the hulking armored frame of the Astartes as it pulled itself up into the Plaza. It didn't even deign to notice, or maybe it just didn't care about the blistering Lasfire that bled over it's frame. Languidly, slowly, almost with a sense of leisure, it aimed its bolter with one hand and fired twice- blasting two grenadiers apart as they dove behind thick, solid stone walls.

It was comical, the first response over the vox. Incredulous, uncertain, and wracked with nerves. "Is that a space marine-!?" It was understandable. The moment passed- the panic began.

_"Fakking shite!"_

_"Traitor Astartes! Renegades!" _

_"But we killed them all?!" _

_"I told you!" _

_"Fire! Fire! Fire!" _

_"Get me command!"_

The grenadiers of the first platoon responded admirably, quickly refocussing their attention inwards, lasfire streamed in from every direction, from multiple angles, the positions the heretics once held now used against the renegade marine. The arrival of such a horrific foe drew attention.

With that attention diverted, the other two renegade astartes began their attack.

They appeared from the side streets, in the back lines, from beneath rubble that they buried themselves in prior to the advance of the Calibrians, waiting for them to move past so that they could cut them off. Dust fell from their armored forms. They singled the start of their attack by blocking the street. Twin detonations collapsed several buildings, rubble strewn everywhere, and crumbled into the street. The guardsmen were cut off from Voltair.

The slaughter began.

...

**AN/: I still own that glass jar. **


	4. Death Knell

**A/N: Saw a homeless man walk into the store holding a live turkey by the legs the other day. **

...

The Shattering.

The day of the Imperiums final victory, and ultimate defeat.

Upon the fields of Cadia, within the holds of bunkers. The stench of death was a miasma, sweeping through the sky. It was the 13th black crusade- it was the Despoilers last crusade.

The Cadian Gate died, and the Imperium was Shattered. The death count is still unknown; some say, that only the Inquisition knows the true number- but refuses to state it, for fear of demoralization. What is known, is that Abbaddon died there.

He, and innumerable other traitor astartes and turncoat renegades died within the Cadian system. The void is filled with corpses from the vented hulls of starships, and planets are awash with continent sized graves of bleached white bones and charred black soot. The Shattering had to be an imperial victory in the eyes of the people, for if it was told that it was what broke the imperiums back, there could be no recovery.

It was claimed that the traitor legions were finally defeated, that the veterans of the long war had all perished, that they had all died there, put to the sword at long last for their ancient heresy. It was said that at the shattering, the Imperium was finally purified, purged of all traitors, that now only the true and faithful remained.

It was all a lie.

Here and now, within the kings capital city upon Valtavyn, were three Renegade Astartes. Superhuman killing machines in patchwork armor but no less leathal. Monsters from terrible nightmares. They walked in the world of the living. So far, in the campaign against the Tyrants Lash, few, if any, had been seen. But now here there were three.

The two in the backlines worked their way forwards, strolling up the road side by side, firing from the hip or one handed. They were Renegades, Astartes. None of them looked the same, none of them wore the same colors, the same insignia. Nor did they use the same weapons.

The one in the center plaza was the only renegade that bore a Bolter- a true Astartes pattern Bolt Gun. Even then, it was in a clear state of disrepair. Panels were missing, replaced by thick leather wrapped over sections to protect the inner workings. The Magazine was cobbled together, and looked as if it had been taken from a different Boltgun variant entirely.

The two advancing from the rear were no less dispossessed in terms of equipment. One was using an imperial guard issue autocannon as if it were a rifle, the frame had been altered- it bore a stock, and the butterfly-trigger had been replaced by a pistol grip. It was an odd configuration, and unwieldily, but the thunderous report and subsequent eradication of several Grenadier weapons teams in quick succession stopped any argument.

The third and final Renegade bore a large shotgun. Short barreled and piggish, its single barrel erupted in a plume of flame from the muzzle as it fired. Then the renegade was reloading, opening the breech, ejecting a casing, fitting in a Heavy Bolter round, closing the breech, and firing again.

They were each wearing armor that was clearly of many different marks. It was unlikely that they were even wearing their own original armors. Likely they wore what they had scavenged from dead loyalists and traitors alike.

It didn't matter that their equipment was sub-par, it didn't matter than their armor was faulty. It didn't matter that they were outnumbered. They were still Astartes. War incarnate. They aimed. They fired. Men died.

Hastis kept his head down, he pulled Hyork back before the idiot could stand up and fire his laspistol like it could do anything. Fighting against the old man, he locked his hand around the inquisitors arm and pulled him back, into a shell of a building- what must have once been a butchers shop by the smell, or maybe it was just the corpses. Lagorn was right behind them, back pedaling, watching the renegade astartes in the center of the plaza.

The Marine lazily ducked a krak missile, then he twisted around and put a burst of bolt-rounds into the second story of a venerable old building- the stones that made up its exterior were blasted apart and an entire section fell away, body-parts and blood were mixed in the rubble and ruin that was left.

"Hyork!" Hastis shouted, "We need to withdraw!"

The two other renegades at last strolled into the plaza- ignoring the lasbeams that painted over their armor, despite the precision that the bursts of lasfire held- targeting the marines helmets, legs, arms, it still was nowhere near enough. With each shot fired by the renegades, another lasgun went silent, the fire was slowly slackening, and with each death the grenadiers were that much closer to breaking.

"What!" Hyork snapped back. He pulled against Hastis' grip. "Those men are dying, damnit!" He shouted. "You mean to abandon them?"

"Nothing they have could even dent those bastards armor, cant even touch them! It's hopeless! We need to retreat!"

"That's cowardice! They may not have the means but we do, we will stand and fight!" Hyrok shouted.

Hastis snarled and grabbed the inquisitor by the head and shook him. "Listen to me you ancient bastard!" Hastis forced the inquisitor to look him in the eye. "Even if you could kill one of them, there's still two left, and they won't let the same trick that killed one of theirs work on them, and for my gun to have a chance of punching through their armor, I need to be at point blank range! Not a chance in the Warp that I'd ever get that fakking close!"  
Outside, two krak rockets spiraled out of cover, one of them whiffed, sailing over one marine, but the other miraculously clipped one of the renegades pauldrons, the warhead detonated, the armor piercing rocket tore the entire pauldron clean off of the marine, exposing the lighter armor beneath. At once, the majority of the grenadiers fire refocused onto that renegade, forcing the traitor astartes to reposition out of the open and into the fountain where he could cover his vulnerable shoulder.

"You can't force me to run, Hastis, not again, not after-"

"It isn't running, it's defensive repositioning." Lagorn chimed in. "If I were you I'd do it now, they'll take note of us sooner than later."

"You can't make me do this…"

"I bloody can, and bloody will. You are not dying on my watch, not until you clear the name of Fendora." Hastis snarled, grabbing Hyork again by the coat.

"We are leaving. Now." Hastis calculates in his head just how they would be able to do that without exposing themselves to the Renegades. Even a second out of cover would mean death. "It's the only option we have, this battle is lost."

"No."

A voice, far deeper than any humans could ever be rolls over Hastis from behind.

"Battle is only lost when you admit defeat."

The shadows shift, a giant emerges, a Marine. Hastis instinctively aims his weapon, in return, the marine stares punitively down at Hastis and the inquisitor, with steely grey eyes.

"I will not allow you to admit defeat."

Clad in scarred, pitted, and broken carapace armor that may have once been proud, the Astartes stands tall despite what is clearly a plethora of grievous injuries that wreathed his body. Flamer burns, lasblasts, autogun rounds and even a few glancing bolter hits to his carapace-clad chest. Still, despite the injury, the marine stood tall, holding a metal quarterstaff smeared with blood in one hand and cradling a scoped bolter in the other- its muzzle blackened with gunsmoke.

"Where in the Warps' five-hells did you come from?" Hastis growled, "Why didn't you radio inn? Think you're too good for discussing matters with the Guard?"

The marine ignored Hastis, looking out at the trio of renegades. Eyes narrowed, the aspect of the astartes shifts, calculating and shrewd, he disregards Hastis. All in a matter of seconds he comes to a decision.

"Have the guardsmen with their weapon teams on standby. I will handle this." He states.

"Are you giving me orders, Marine?" Hastis snapped. "When did Brutes like you think to be above the Inquisition?"

"Hastis!"

The marine shrugs as he steps past the inquisitor and his agents. "When did the inquisition foster cowards?" He answered.

"Was that a joke?" Hastis growled back. "Are you playing a joke?"

"Hold this." The marine tossed his oversized scoped bolter to Hastis. The guardsman just caught it and it nearly toppled him over. The marine walked past them, vaulting through the window and landing in the street. He threw off the tattered remains of his camocloak and left it in the dust.

"Traitors," The scout marine shouted- announcing his presence with a soft but powerful voice. "You face me, now." He decreed.

The trio turned, forgetting about the guardsmen- the mortals- entirely, when now faced with a demigod of war such as they. Snarling words pierced the air, laced with anger and regret, and for a moment the war seemed to stop. "You," one of the three snarled. "who are you to challenge us?" The renegade said. "Without amor or weapon? Has madness taken hold of you? I give you this chance now; withdraw! While you've the legs to carry you!"

Yenald ignored their blustering, instead he scrutinized the emblem upon their pauldrons, studying the faded chapter iconography there, scarred and mutilated, but still desperately trying to shine through the muck and grime of shame.

"Ultramarine's successors." Yenald observed. "The Avenging Sons' chapter?" Yenald inclines his head. "Your chapter died. Broken at the Dathos Tragedy. How did you survive?"

The apparent leader of the three renegades barked a cold laugh, stepping forwards, lowering his ramshackle bolter by a fraction of an inch. Intrigued by the peculiar scout marine before them. "You claim to know my chapter, yet I know nothing of yours, Scout." He said. "Name yourself, and then perhaps I'll answer you, fool."

"Scout Master Yenald, of the Sun's Descendants."

"I thought your chapter was lost." The autocannon wielding renegade scoffed. "Consumed by Xenos along the western fringes of this cursed galaxy."

"Forgotten," Yenald shakes his head "not lost."

"Feh, you claim to be forgotten?" The leader said, "You know nothing of being abandoned and cast aside…"

"I know enough. I've seen it first hand. The conflict within you. Your home is gone. Your masters all dead."

The renegade growled, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Don't pretend to understand, fool, you weren't there, you couldn't ever understand. You claim to know of Dathos, of that dark day, then, you must know that the realm of the five-hundred burned at the hands of the corpse-light empire? You know all this, and yet you still fight?"

"The realm of the five-hundred was burned. It was never broken. It will rise again."

"Impossible- what strength does mankind have now? The Imperium is dead! Our father is dead! His stasis crypt was broken, and his corpse was flayed by those metallic abominations! The realm of the five-hundred eradicated by the green corpse-light of xenos!" The Renegade marine spat, "If you had any sense about you, you would run, taking all that you can carry just to survive." He shakes his head in disgust and anger.

"This galaxy is not meant for us, it never was, it never will be. It only belongs to the strong, it belongs to those that have the power to take that from those who cannot protect what they hold!" The renegade leader raises a clenched fist, the ceramite of his gauntlets audibly groaning in protest. "Tradition means nothing! Honor means nothing! What use are these things when we live in a galaxy where even demigods can die and have their skin worn like a funerary shroud across the back of wretched xenos constructs!"

Yenald speaks slowly, as if lecturing a child. "You put your faith in a single man. He may have been a demigod, but he was still a man. When he was lost, so was your source of conviction. I believe in man-kind. I put my faith in all of humanity. I believe in these mortals you hold so much contempt for. You saw your father as infallible. I know humanity to be fallible. So, in their stead, I strive to show them the way. Dathos did not break you. Realizing the failures of your fathers did. You could not come to terms with his death, and in turn, that became your defeat. You made excuses to plunder and steal. You let yourself fall into ranks with traitors, mutants, and likeminded failures. You sought culpability in the empire you served. You should have instead looked to yourselves to find where the weakness lay."

The renegade marine roared. Forgoing words in favor of violence- rebuking the cultured tongue of Yenald with a burst of automatic bolter fire.  
In the time that it took the Marine to raise his bolter, Yenald had already closed the distance between them.

Hastis had seen Astartes fight before. He's seen it on several occasions. He'd seen it from a distance and he'd seen it up close. Both had been terrifying spectacles. Nothing that large, that strong, should be able to move that quickly, and that precisely. It just wasn't natural. The unerring grace of the perfidious Eldar made sense, it seemed Right, they were light and stringy, flexible and delicate. They moved and it seemed Natural in how controlled their motions were. An Astartes- an Astartes in motion, in full explosive combat, was unreal. A full eight-feet of muscle and controlled rage should not be able to react with such insane responsiveness.

Yenald was dancing, spinning around the iron defenses of the Renegade marine, with artful skill he battered the traitor with brutal thrusts of his glimmering silver staff- unlocked and fully extended. Sparks erupted after every strike- as the folding silver quarterstaff slammed into the ceramite armor of the traitor. The renegade in turn dropped his ram-shackle bolter and instead drew forth over a foot and a half of shining plasteel, to the marine it was a mere combat-knife, but to any human it would have been a sword. The other two renegades charge into the maelstrom, ripping combat knives and other close-in weaponry from their belts.

The renegades try to corral him, they try to pen the Scout marine in and hack him to pieces- they might as well have been corralling water with their fingers. The Scout flows, dips around them, sways around their strikes and keeps out of their range- yet maddeningly just close enough for his own strikes to connect. Always targeting the cracks in their defenses, always slipping under their guard to throw off their aim just long enough for a blow that should have ended the scouts life instead fly off mark.

Yenald comes in low like a bird swooping under a tree-branch, dodging one of the precise swings of the renegades by centimeters. Even so, the blade grazes Yenalds cheek, the very tip cutting through his skin and drawing blood- but the scout does not care. Yenald brings the tip of his staff up, catches the marine firmly behind his arm and leverages his force into the renegades swing.

Off balance, and with Yenalds weight behind his own strike, the combat blade of the renegade swings around and slams home- into the neck of his brother.

Shock and disbelief comes over the renegade- he watches his brothers blood well around his embedded combat blade. He did not mean to strike his brother but his wild swing, and the careful redirection of Yenald made it so he did. With both his throat and spine pierced by his brothers blade, the Renegade dies.

Yenald doesn't wait- his capitalizes on the marines shock- Yenald lunges forwards with sudden vigor and force. He rips a combat blade free from his belt- long and tapered, it is clearly designed for stabbing through armor and reaching vital points. Before the renegade can react, his blade slots into neck of the traitor almost neatly- like a gear being fitted back into place. Punching up under the renegades helmet, through his lower jaw, the roof of his mouth, and then finally coming to rest in his brain- displacing grey matter and reaching all the way back until finally punching through the medulla-oblongata. The renegade marines twin hearts stopped a moment later.

A quiet tug, and Yenald pulls his blood-washed dagger free. The bodies of the two dead astartes collapsing on-top of each other in a heap of ceremite and plasteel. Yenald circles back, he regards the last renegade.

"You… My brothers…" The marine snarls. "I'll have your hide!" His fists clench, armor groans, he holds tight the grip of his blade. The Scout-Master pays him no heed.

"Now." Yenald says aloud, looking past the renegade

The red beam of energy cuts through the air at the speed of light- the high pitched whine the only warning the renegade has before his torso comes apart as the lascannon beam rips through his armor and out the other side. The remains slump to the ground with a clang, smoke and ash drifting out through the hole made by the potent anti tank weapon.

It took a minute, maybe more, before the Calibrian grenadiers were able to move. They gathered their wounded, prayed for their dead, and set to work. There was still a battle to be fought, there was work to be done. Hastis left the safety of the dedicated butchers shop, striding out to meet the Astartes. He glanced past the stoic Scout Master, who had busied himself with scraping the dried blood of the renegades from his knife and quarterstaff. Hastis noticed that the Quarterstaff the marine used had interlocking parts, and as he watched, the Marine collapsed it down into a more compact form. He wondered if that reduced its structural integrity.

Without the threat of having a bolter round blow open his skull, Hastis could take in the condition of the Scout Master more clearly. His carapace armor was pitted and scarred, blood leaked sluggishly from still open wounds that should have closed. His arms were torn up with buckshot and shrapnel. His face was stained with viscera, his equipment dented and scratched. He looked like every frontline guardsmen did after having stormed an enemy strongpoint and surviving.

Yenald turned and faced Hastis, his face betraying no emotion, his flint grey eyes seeming to dismiss his surroundings. He spoke before Hastis could even begin.

"The inquisitor." He rumbled. "I'd speak with him."

Hastis was indignant. He had wanted to get the Marines information- wanted to know if he had seen. Any other renegades and chaos marauders like the three dead traitors behind him. "In a moment, I need to know-"

Yenald grunted, pushing Hastis aside with one hand and stalking past. The guardsman snarled and grabbed Yenald by the arm. The Scout stopped. He looked back and down at Hastis. There was something in his expression that Hastis couldn't read.

"Don't you just try and brush me off, Astartes!" Hastis snapped. "I wont have your like looking down on me!"

"You are arrogant." Yenald states, and the cold eyes of the Scout marine are the last thing Hastis see's besides the torn-up knuckles of the scouts hand before they slammed into his face.

…

"Is he…" The question hangs, and Yenald is quick to answer.

"Unconscious." Yenald curtly replies to the grey haired mortal, old and wizened, but in no way feeble. Behind Yenald, a guardsman is quick to investigate the knocked-out inquisitorial agent, the master of whom, now stood before Yenald.

"You do know that there are consequences for striking a member of the Ordos." Hyork intoned.

"I don't suffer fools." Yenald replies. His tone brooked no argument.

Hyork nodded slowly. "Very well, Hastis can be troublesome, that I know from experience."

"Why suffer him, then?"

"I have my reasons, and Hastis is a proficient fighter."

Yenald agreed silently. He had seen the handiwork of 'Hastis' before, back in the trenches. Surrounded by dead fanatics, all by his hand.

"Inquisitor." Yenald says. "Speak with me." It is a demand, not a request.

"I've lost many brothers." Yenald states. "Too many."

"The artillery sites?"

"Protected by renegades." Yenald looked back at the bodies of the traitor astartes.  
"They attacked from ambush. They knew we would be there." He shook his head. "They killed my brothers. I alone survived."

Hyork was quiet for a moment, calculating the risk of several more renegade astartes loose to wreak havoc, along with artillery. He cursed.

"How many traitor astartes were there?" He asked.

"Not enough." Yenald said.

"Pardon?"

"Their guns are silenced." Yenald told the Inquisitor. "The traitors are dead."

Hyork said nothing for a moment, then spoke quickly. "Your brothers, were all of you slain?"

"No." Yenald shakes his head. "But many were. Squads' Ioca, Celaphaius, and Chernobaug should remain. Escorting the guards tanks. Designating targets for artillery strikes." His grimace deepened. "Lost too many. Should have seen the signs. The ambush." He looked back at Hyork, sudden intensity in his gaze. "Your Vox. Let me use it. Mine was damaged."

"What do you need it for?"

"I must call the Griffons."

…  
Sickly incense, rotten smoke, lifting from ochre and carmine pennants, daubed with wax sigils of abominable origin. A stone alter, gravid with ill portent, Sickly creatures squirmed and mewled piteously around it, bent in genuflection, bleeding from open wounds that coated their pale, hairless, emaciated bodies.

Theirs was a purpose that dominated the center of the chamber- the corrupted chantry with its high fresco ceiling stained black with smoke and obscured. The outskirts- the walls with their painted saints and glaring statues, all defaced, all toppled. He was the most blighted desecration of all.

His presence corrupted the very floor with skeins of hoarfrost and ice spawned from every step. His gaze fixated on the alter, the profaned pedestal. The time- the time was nearly here, almost- nearly, but not quite. A second more- another, two seconds than three, once again, now!

A flick of his armored wrist, an ushered word, and the painted black sky beyond, was taken deeper and deeper into an unnatural Night as the world fell.

The air was rotten with smoke, and swirling clouds of ash, and above it was the pearlescent blue dome of the void shield. A shield of energy that protected the corrupted city beneath from the massed guns of the imperial guard and the lances of the navy. In better days, it could have been pummeled until it overloaded, and the city shattered. In the dark days after the Shattering, such acts were seen as ill afforded.

The void shield shifted, swelling, swaying, rippling like a dome of water- before Breaking. Like a lizard peeling its skin a ripple cascaded down over the field from the top and worked its way down the sides- a black, bilsome substance reminiscent of corrosion turned the once translucent field now black and obscured.

A dome of night fell over the city, blocking out all light- a suffocating darkness thick with ash and smoke- in the air, the scent of sulfur.

...

**A/N: He wanted the butcher to fix it up for him. Shit was surreal. **


End file.
